


What Is And What Should Never Be

by Ayende



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski-centric, also other characters but I don't want to spam tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 98,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayende/pseuds/Ayende
Summary: When fairies appeared in Beacon Hills, Stiles prepared himself for the usual level of craziness.But now he's stranded in a parallel universe with no idea how to get back home.  Nothing could have prepared him for this.





	1. And Fairies, Oh My

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was a request by the wonderful Lillelouis over at FFN from…3 years ago? Jesus. I'm sorry that this took so long - real life can be a bitch, sometimes.
> 
> I normally don't post fics until I've finished writing them, but at the moment I'm 40k into this with no end in sight and my motivation is starting to flag. I definitely want to finish this one so I thought I'd start posting in the hopes of kicking myself into gear. It does mean that updates will be slower than usual, though, since my aim is to finish at least one new chapter before polishing off an old one and posting it.
> 
> Title is shamelessly stolen from a S2 episode of Supernatural (which in turn stole it from a Led Zeppelin song). Also, I apologise for the complete bastardisation of fairy lore found in this fic - liberties have definitely been taken, in true Teen Wolf fashion.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

 

_How was it,_ Stiles wondered, _that it always ended up like this?_  

It didn’t seem to matter how much he grumbled or how many deities he half-heartedly begged.  Somehow, he always found himself trudging through the woods in the middle of the night hunting down the latest God-knows-what to terrorise Beacon Hills.

He huffed, adjusting the flashlight in his left hand and hefting the iron poker in his right, then rolled his eyes as he heard a soft chuckle from nearby.  “I’m glad you find this amusing,” he grumbled, not bothering to look around.

“Sorry.” Scott didn’t sound remotely apologetic. “It’s just that you used to be the one dragging me through the woods against my will, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I realised that I’m a puny human in world full of supervillains.  I’ve garnered a little respect for self-preservation.”

Scott made an unconvinced noise but otherwise let the conversation slide, the silence broken only by the thud of their footsteps – Stiles’ noticeably louder than Scott’s – and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.  Stiles couldn’t hear any animals at all – he suspected they were keeping well clear of Scott’s werewolf scent. 

On any other day, it would have been peaceful.

Stiles’ skin prickled, and he shuddered.  Peacefulness had always made him nervous – _the calm before the storm_ \- and the last few years had only cemented that instinct.  The threat was always just around the corner, invisible and inevitable, and the anticipation was almost worse than the confrontation itself.

Stiles had never been good at waiting, so he forcibly unclenched his jaw and cast his mind for a distraction.  “So, Deaton’s sure that it’s a fairy?” he asked, letting the words tumble out thoughtlessly.

To his left, he saw Scott tilt his head in concern. The werewolf had no doubt been flooded by his anxiety-driven chemosignals - as if Scott ever needed help reading him to begin with.

“He seems to be,” Scott replied after a beat, shaking his head in bewilderment and apparently choosing to leave it be for now.  “I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around it, honestly.  I mean, fairies?  Really?”

Stiles snorted.  He could feel the tension melting from his shoulders as he eased into their familiar banter.  “You always have been ridiculously sceptical.  With all the weird shit that’s happened in the last week, are fairies really so crazy?”

Weird shit didn’t even begin to cover it.  Stiles had watched, wide-eyed, as a group of annoyingly loud students suddenly froze in the cafeteria, unable to move or speak for an entire hour.  Then, during training, he had been forced to run for cover when lacrosse balls started flying by themselves, interrupting Coach Finstock’s passionate rant.

Magical outbursts - that was what Deaton had called it.  Stiles had listened, bemused, as the vet explained that many people were born with a certain potential for magic, an untapped talent that would typically remain dormant for a lifetime.  The arrival of the fairy had changed that.

Deaton’s cryptic explanation had left Stiles with more headaches than answers, but he understood the gist.  Wherever fairies went, magic followed.  They changed the world to be more like theirs, calling forth every speck of magical potential until it spilled uncontrollably into the surroundings.

It sounded fantastical – poetic, even. A year ago, Stiles would have been bouncing off the walls with excitement at the mere thought that magic existed, let alone fairies and other worlds.

Now, though, he was stuck trudging through the woods while his thigh ached from where Coach’s so-called magical potential had thwacked him with a lacrosse ball, so he mostly he just felt tired and grumpy.  Reality had no room for poetry.

Scott suddenly perked up, his gaze fixing on something in the distance and his shoulders relaxing.  _Finally_ , Stiles groaned internally.  They must be almost there.

Sure enough, it was only minutes later that Stiles spied two small lights up ahead, and when he strained his ears he could just make out the girls’ voices.

“Do you think you can track them?” Lydia was asking.

“I’m not sure.” There was an edge of frustration to Malia’s voice.  Scott and Stiles shared a worried glance, picking up the pace until the trees thinned into a sudden clearing.

Malia was crouched at the opposite end of the clearing, trailing a hand along the surface of a smooth rock.  Her brow was furrowed, and she was biting her bottom lip in confusion. 

“What is it?” Scott asked, sparing a quick smile for Lydia before heading over to join the werecoyote.

Malia fell back on her heels, gesturing for him to crouch beside her. “I’ve been tracking their scents but…this doesn’t make sense to me.  Have a look; tell me what you think.”

Tracking had never been Scott’s forte, so Stiles figured it was best to give him some space.  He made his way to Lydia instead, taking in his surroundings with keen eyes as he went.  The ground was unusually even, he noticed, with no potholes or slopes to trip his feet.  In fact, there were no rocks or sticks marring the springy grass beneath his feet, and he couldn’t see any leaf litter in his torchlight at all. 

Lydia had chosen to stand in the centre of the clearing, and when Stiles reached her he shifted his light from the ground to waist-height, then slowly rotated. 

_Huh,_ he thought, impressed.  _Dad was right._ He couldn’t see particularly well in the dark, but the tree trunks seemed to be roughly the same distance away from him whichever direction he turned.  It was as though the clearing was a perfect circle.

“It’s all wrong,” Lydia murmured.  Stiles turned his attention back to her, surprised to find her sharp eyes fixed on his.  “You see it too?”

Stiles nodded, shivering a little.  It must be the cool night air.  “Yeah.  There’s something off about this place – even Dad noticed that.  Whatever it is, it’s not natural.

“It’s more than that.”  Lydia frowned, pushing an errant lock of hair behind her ear in an irritated fashion that betrayed her discomfort.  “This whole place looks innocent, but it reeks of danger.  It’s like there’s something hiding, just waiting beneath the surface.”

This time, Stiles’ prickling skin was definitely more to do with anxiety than the temperature. His heart skipped a beat as something stirred in his chest, and for a moment he could have sworn he heard thunder in the distance, but he stamped down on his emotions and tried to focus instead on the facts.

“Okay,” he said, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.  “Well, Dad said that they planned to come this way on their hike.  Apparently, Josh had found a spot he thought was romantic.  If you ignore the creepy-as-hell vibes that this place is giving off, I guess this could be it.”

Lydia crinkled her nose, poking the ground distastefully with the toe of her boot.  “I suppose.  If your definition of romance involves walking through the woods for two hours and spending your entire date fending off mosquitoes.”

Stiles grinned.  “Noted.  Do not take Lydia Martin hiking, unless you’re expecting to find werecoyotes or dead bodies at the end.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in the slightest hint of a smile.  “I could do without the dead bodies, too, you know,” she deadpanned.  “Call me old-fashioned, but dinner and a movie sounds much more appealing.”

That prompted a small laugh.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”  A soft breeze ruffled Stiles’ hair and he pursed his lips, turning back to the matter at hand.  “Not tonight, though,” he added, softly.  “Josh and Sarah have been gone for over a day now.  Do you feel anything else?”

Lydia’s mouth tightened, her levity forgotten.  “This is definitely the place,” she pondered.  “It’s not natural, and the circular shape would fit with Deaton’s fairy theory.  But I don’t think anyone died here.”

“Well, that’s something,” Stiles replied, trying to inject some optimism into his voice.  “If they’re still alive, there’s still hope.”

The banshee didn’t share his excitement.  “Maybe.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. She had that distant look in her eyes, the one that said that she was mulling over something, chasing a chain of ideas faster than he could follow, and he didn’t think he was going to like where she ended up. 

He opened his mouth to ask her to share her thoughts, but snapped it shut again when she closed her eyes, her forehead creased in concentration.  She was breathing slowly, deliberately, in a way that always made him squirm in discomfort.

He didn’t think he would ever get used to watching her use her powers.

Still, she was obviously trying to work through a theory, so he waited quietly, studying her intently, until something heavy landed on his shoulder and he jumped a foot in the air, biting off a curse.  

“Jesus, Scott!”  The werewolf in question was standing beside Stiles, one hand outstretched and a marginally apologetic look in his eyes, Malia a few steps behind.  Stiles clutched his chest, trying to slow his panicking heart.  “Warn a guy, next time!”

“Sorry,” Scott replied automatically, not sounding particularly apologetic.

Stiles glared at him.

Malia pushed forward, interrupting them before they could even get started.  “They never left here,” she announced.  Her lips were thin, her eyebrows pulled together in an irritated frown.  Stiles knew that look well – it was the same expression she gave to her maths textbook when she was struggling with a new concept.  It was a look that she reserved for times when something _should_ be making sense, but wasn’t.

Stiles’ heart sank.  It was a look that didn’t bode well for their little investigation.

“Sarah’s perfume is all over the place,” Malia explained.  “They came from over there –” she pointed to the side of the clearing where Scott and Stiles had entered – “but the trail ends here.  There’s no blood and no sign of a struggle.  So, either they retraced their footsteps back to town, or they just vanished into thin air.”

Stiles exchanged a grim expression with Scott.  They had been through too much in the last few years to ever expect an easy answer.

“What about the chemosignals?” Stiles prompted.  “Any fear, pain, anything?”

“Fear, yes,” Scott answered, before shaking his head.  “But nothing else.  If they were captured, there would probably be pain, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Lydia countered.  She must have abandoned her banshee efforts when the others arrived, her eyes sharp and clear as she turned the information over in her mind.  “Fairy lore has twisted and changed over the years, so I don’t really know what parts are real.  But abductions and the use of magic are common staples.”

“Right,” Stiles added, picking up her train of thought and running ahead. “Fairies aren’t from our world, they live in their own dimension.  Depending on what brand of mythology you look at, they could have all sorts of magical abilities – they could easily be able to take people without causing pain.  They’re also famous for kidnapping humans and bringing them back to their world, sometimes as companions, sometimes as playthings.”

“Playthings?” Malia twisted her mouth in disgust, backtracking rapidly.  “Actually, never mind.  I don’t want to know.”

“No, probably not,” Stiles agreed.  “But if we assume that Josh and Sarah have been taken to another dimension, the more pressing question is how to we get them back?  No offense, but I don’t think claws and fangs are going to be able to do much against super-powerful magical beings.”

“Actually, I don’t think we’ll have to do that,” Lydia said.  Her eyes drifted down to her feet and she shifted her weight, clearly reluctant to voice her thoughts, but she continued anyway.  “I’ve spent the last day trying to feel whether Josh and Sarah had died, and I’ve gotten nowhere,” she explained, quietly.  “But if they didn’t die here, if they were really taken to another dimension, then it would sense that I wouldn’t feel their deaths.  So, just before, I tried something different.  I tried to feel whether they were still alive.”

She paused for breath, green eyes radiating pain as she finally lifted her gaze. “They’re not.  I know my abilities haven’t been the most reliable in the past, but I’m right about this.  I’m sure of it.  We’re too late.”

Her voice was steady as a rock and Stiles’ heart sunk, a distant rumble of thunder perfectly complementing his emotions.  He hadn’t really known the couple – they were a year older and weren’t the type to associate with awkward nerds like him – but he knew they didn’t deserve to die. 

Sarah Romano and Josh Duhls.  Two more names to add to what felt like an ever-growing list.

He rubbed his chest, absently trying to calm a writhing heat that had ignited within, and tilted his head curiously at Malia.  The werecoyote was staring at the sky with the same annoyed expression from earlier.

“Malia?” he asked, cautiously.  “What is it?”

She glanced at him, then gestured at the sky.  “There’s no clouds,” she pointed out.  “There’s thunder, but it’s a clear night.  Something’s off.”

She was right, Stiles realised.  His heart fluttered nervously, heat expanding further in his chest.  “The fairy?” he suggested.

“It has to be,” Scott agreed, an edge of anxiety to his voice.  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Malia led the way, heading back toward town at a jog slow enough for the humans to keep up.  Lydia followed close behind, surprisingly sure-footed, then Stiles, with Scott bringing up the rear.  Once, Stiles would have been irritated at the protective positions the werewolves had taken. Now, though, all he felt was gratefulness.

They hadn’t gone far – less than a mile – when Malia suddenly drew to an abrupt halt, letting out a loud curse.  Lydia and Stiles pulled up short, Scott blowing past them to take the lead. 

Stiles didn’t hurry, taking a moment to catch his breath as he met Lydia’s grim expression with one of his own.  He had a feeling he knew what had happened.

Carefully, Stiles stepped forward and closed his fingers around Lydia’s hand, and together they moved to catch up with the others.  As soon as they drew even, they could see what had prompted Malia’s shout.

Stiles was expecting it, but his stomach still plummeted at the sight.  It was another perfectly round clearing – the same one they had just left – materialised right in their path.

“We’re too late,” Lydia murmured, and Stiles nodded in agreement. 

Scott turned his attention to them.  “What do you mean?” he asked, sharply.

“The fairy’s already here,” Stiles explained.  “It’s not going to let us leave without a confrontation.” He let go of Lydia’s hand, moving his flashlight into his left hand so he could better grip the iron poker in his right.

“I wouldn’t bother with that.” 

Stiles jolted in surprise at the unfamiliar voice, but before he could even turn toward it an unseen force wrapped itself around his forearm and _twisted._ Pain exploded in his wrist, and he cried out, eyes wide in horror.  Something was grabbing him, an invisible hand clutching his arm in a vice-like grip, pulling it backward.

He spasmed, desperately trying to keep hold of the poker, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance.  The pressure was rising, and within seconds his grip slipped, the rod flying forcefully out of his hand to land somewhere in the trees to his right.

Instantly, the pressure vanished.  Stiles staggered forward at the sudden loss of resistance, clutching his injured wrist in his left hand and hissing in pain.  _Well, this is off to a great start_.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice was heavy with fear and concern. 

Stiles winced, massaging the developing bruise on his wrist.  “I’m okay.”  And he was – surprisingly.  He gave it an experimental wiggle and, even though it was sore, it moved easily enough.   Thank god for small mercies.

He raised his head, meeting Scott’s worried gaze with a reassuring nod, then finally turned his attention back to his assailant. 

The creature was humanoid, but that was where the similarities ended.  Its slender figure towered over the glade, standing seven feet tall with arms that stretched down to his knees and feet too large for its body.  It was bald, a broad forehead crowning an alien face with dark eyes and a sharp chin.  Strange, dark green clothing clung to its body, and it had an odd, staggering gait as it walked to meet them.

Stiles instinctively shuffled to the left, moving his shoulder slightly in front of Lydia. 

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Scott began, dragging his gaze away from Stiles to stare at the creature.  He opened his hands in a universal gesture of peace.  “We just want to talk, to find out why you’re here.  Maybe there’s something we can do to help?”

The fairy tilted its head, beady eyes studying Scott up and down.  “I doubt that,” it sneered.  “I have no interest in your kind.”

“But you do have interest in innocent teenagers trying to have a romantic night out?” Malia spat, her eyes flaring blue.

The fairy was unimpressed.  It eyed her with an expression that could only be described as disdain, and with a flick of its elongated wrist the air around Stiles suddenly _thickened._

_What the…_ Stiles automatically flailed his arm against the strange sensation, only to find that he couldn’t.  It was like he was surrounded by thick padding – a substance that wasn’t hard enough to be painful, but firm enough to hold him in place.   

His breathing quickened in panic.  Frantically, he tried to move all four limbs, thrashing in every direction with all his strength.  No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t force his arms through the solidified air, his feet stuck to the ground like glue, and he couldn’t even twist at the waist.  The only thing he could move was his neck, and he desperately looked to the others for help, only to see that they were frozen solid as well.

His heart hammered against his ribs, so hard that it was starting to hurt, the sensation of heat increasing to a slow burn as it spread to his shoulders and neck.  _We’ve been in worse situations before,_ Stiles tried to reassure himself.  Granted, he was having trouble thinking of one right this second, but surely there had been.

“You’re not going to take us,” Lydia cut through his thoughts, voice surprisingly steady.  Stiles couldn’t turn enough to see her, but he could hear shallow breathing that betrayed her nerves.  “You said it yourself – you’re not interested in our kind.  And fairies don’t tend to just kill people, so what exactly is your plan here?”

Stiles couldn’t hold back a wince, but smoothed his expression when he saw the fairy looking in his direction.  Lydia was smarter than this – she must have a plan - but _still_.  Any plan that involved baiting the powerful creature holding them hostage couldn’t possibly be a good one.

The fairy smirked, casually strolling forward before pausing in front of Malia.  “You’re right,” it conceded.  Stiles’ arms prickled nervously, the burn spreading further down his arms and into his hands.   It didn’t sound worried in the slightest.  “I’m not interested in you, little banshee.  I’m also not going to let you draw me close enough to scream – at least, not without a gag.”

The creature flicked its wrist once more, and Stiles heard a choking sound from behind him.  He couldn’t turn to see Lydia, but he could guess what had happened.  Anger flowed through him and he clenched his jaw, glaring at the fairy as his fingers burned with intensity.  

“Let her go,” Stiles growled, the tone of his voice conveying the threat more effectively than words ever could.   Malia snarled in support, and behind her Scott was burning holes through the fairy with crimson eyes.

The fairy didn’t look remotely concerned.  It did shift its gaze to Stiles, however, expression melting into curiosity as it slowly walked toward him.

“Now, this,” it said, an undercurrent of awe in its tone, “this is interesting.”

Stiles didn’t think his panic could deepen but, apparently, he was wrong.  His hand twitched nervously, the heat prickling his fingertips, and he set his jaw as the fairy approached.

_Wait a minute_.  Confusion temporarily overrode his fear, and Stiles frowned as he tried to wiggle his fingers on his right hand.  They responded easily, although he could still feel the solidified air holding the rest of him in place.

Could the fairy be losing control?  It didn’t seem likely.  The creature didn’t seem at all unsettled, its stance relaxed as it bore down on Stiles, beady eyes scanning his body.

Stiles would have squirmed, if he could move.  He kept his fingers still, not wanting to reveal a potential weakness, and focussed on staring blandly at the fairy’s face.  He wracked his brains, trying to find a way that he could use this to his advantage.

His thoughts were interrupted by the fairy’s smooth voice.  “This town has been delightful, I’ll admit.  So many sparks, so much potential, I haven’t seen anything like it in a long time.  But you’re different.  How did you hide from me?”

Stiles frowned, exchanging a confused glance with Malia.  The werecoyote shook her head, nonplussed, and behind her Scott looked equally lost.

“Uh, come again?” Stiles asked, baffled.  “I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

There was a glint of annoyance in the fairy’s eyes and Stiles cringed internally as it rose to its full height, towering over him. 

“I assure you I am not,” the fairy replied.  Stiles didn’t think he was imagining a hint of anger in its voice.  “A spark like yours should have called to me the moment I arrived here, but it didn’t.  Why is that?”

Frustration was rapidly overcoming his fear, and Stiles rolled his eyes in exasperation.  “Are you deaf? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

The fairy paused, stiffening, and despite its alien features Stiles was sure that it was glaring at him with rage.

Oops.

“Then let me be perfectly clear,” the creature said, voice low and crisp.  “You have a spark, a strong one.  I know you can feel it; you must be able to.  A smouldering flame burning through your limbs, pulsing through your veins, both strengthening you and consuming you.”

Stiles’ heart stopped. 

The burn had been there on and off for a few days now.  He hadn’t given it a second thought, dismissing it as a physical manifestation of the anxiety that seemed to plague him constantly.  It hadn’t occurred to him that it could be anything more, but now that he thought about it…well.  Anxiety was an old friend of his, but the burn was something new.  The timing did seem to fit.

A wave of heat passed from his chest to his arms, and over his head lightning streaked across a clear night sky.

Oh.

_Oh shit._

Stiles’ heart restarted with a vengeance, pounding frantically in his chest in time with his rapid breaths.  Malia was staring at Stiles with wide eyes and he exhaled through pursed lips, trying desperately to settle his rising fear.

_Get a grip, Stiles.  Find an anchor.  Any anchor._

His mind whirled, thoughts scattering as the fairy stepped closer, lip curling to reveal a set of sharp, pointed teeth.  It reached one hand out toward Stiles and gently trailed long fingers down his cheek.

“It’s a curiosity,” it said, voice silky smooth once more.  “When you arrive in my world you will be well looked after, I assure you.”

_No.  Oh, god no._

Panic rose in Stiles’ chest, and before him he could see veins bulge in Scott’s neck as the alpha let out a roar, shifting even as he was held immobile.  He heard Lydia moan against her gag at the same time that Malia snarled, struggling against invisible bonds.

Realisation struck him, and his breath caught. 

They wouldn’t be able to save him this time.

The fairy traced a path down Stiles’ cheek to his neck, before closing its fingers around his shoulder in a painfully tight grip, a determined gleam in its dark eyes. 

In an instant, Stiles’ panic broke.

Rage thundered through him, lightening cracking overhead as the heat grew to a fiery inferno, and suddenly Stiles was able to move.  He wasted no time, smashing his left hand into the fairy’s fingers and twisting out its grip in one swift move, leaping backwards at it hissed in pain.

“You _dare_ ,” the fairy snarled, features contorting with anger, stalking closer to Stiles once more.

Stiles stumbled backward, keeping out of the creature’s reach even as he glared ferociously in return.  “Yes, I do!” he shouted, a roar of thunder emphasising his words.  The fire burned through his chest, his arms, his legs, pulsing in time with his erratic heart, feeding his rage and feeding from it in return. “Let my friends go and leave.  Now.”

“You’re a child,” the fairy retorted, not cowed in the least.  It made a strange gesture with its left hand and the air solidified once more, locking Stiles’ legs in place. 

Stiles thrashed, desperately trying to lift his feet, but they held fast.  The creature closed in on him, reaching out once more with those long fingers, and Stiles didn’t have time to think.  The fire pulsed, and he moved.

His left arm lifted from his side, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of metallic grey flying through the air before his fingers closed around a cool metal rod.  The fairy leaned in, and Stiles brought the object to his front, thrusting upward with more force than he should have ordinarily been able to master.

The poker tore right through the fairy’s chest, bursting out its back in a spray of dark green fluid.

The fairy’s mouth opened in a silent scream.  Stiles couldn’t move, frozen in horror, as its terrified eyes locked onto his own.  Warm blood poured from its chest, soaking Stiles’ forearms, and its limbs jerked uncontrollably - once, twice, three times. 

It lasted seconds, or minutes – Stiles couldn’t tell, the moment stretching on into eternity.  But, finally, it stopped.  The creature’s fear drained away, face slackening into a vacant stare, arms falling limp by its sides. 

It didn’t make a sound when it died.

Stiles stayed still, eyes locked onto the lifeless corpse before him.  Vaguely, he was aware of raised voices nearby, hands pulling at him, trying to drag him away, but all he could see was the fairy – or was it a chimera? – begging for mercy with dark eyes, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

The world spun.  His chest constricted, fire blazing through his limbs, and a whirlwind of colours obscured his vision.  The voices were louder, he thought, more panicked, but he couldn’t make out the words over a crash of thunder.  There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, becoming more intense by the second, and he fell to the ground, digging his fingers into the dirt in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

The colours melted into white, the inferno burned hotter.

And then everything disappeared.


	2. Dawn

He woke up slowly, reluctantly, on familiar sheets.

The thread was harsh on his cheek and his blanket must have slipped off during the night, leaving his skin prickling uncomfortably in the cool air, but his pillow was so wonderfully soft beneath his aching head that he didn’t bother to open his eyes.  Instead, he nuzzled further into the bedding and allowed himself to be lulled by the sound of a gentle mechanical whir in the distance.

He had no idea how long he’d slept, but the bone-deep fatigue told him it was not long enough.

Why was he so exhausted?  Stiles suppressed a yawn, letting his mind drift back to the previous day.  It had been Thursday, hadn’t it?  A school day, and he was supposed to be learning about matrices, but he never actually made it to class.  Instead, he had driven to the animal clinic, where Deaton had pinned him with an uneasy stare and explained that fairies were almost certainly real and wreaking havoc in town.

Fairies.

The memory slammed into him like a truck.  Stiles jolted upright with a gasp, his drowsiness immediately forgotten.  The events of last night played at double speed in his mind, riding high on a wave of nervous energy.

The fairy had attacked them, and Stiles had…

Stiles had _killed it._  

His heart thumped, horror arcing through him.  He stared at his trembling hands, pale and skinny with no trace of the warm blood that had soaked through his skin.  Where had it gone?  He didn’t remember washing it off.  Hell, he didn’t even remember coming home. 

All he remembered was fire, thunder, and a blinding white light.

_Terrified, beady eyes, begging for mercy --_

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, shredding the thought before it could fully form.   That path led to darkness and pain, and he couldn’t afford to lose himself right now.  He needed to figure out what was going on.

There was a fuzziness to his memory that set him on edge, but some details were clear as day.  The perfect circle of the clearing.  Lydia closing her eyes, reaching out with her power to search for their missing classmates.  Malia’s electric-blue eyes, darting wildly around the clearing as she struggled against solidified air.

The fairy, looming over Stiles with fierce curiosity.  Its long, alien fingers, tracing their way down his neck.  Its voice, speaking of sparks and fire, and the thunder that crashed in response.

_And isn’t that an interesting word, Deaton, you mysterious asshole.  Sparks, potentials.  Did you know about this, all the way back then?_

Stiles licked his lips, nervously.  He knew that there were things that he needed to do.  He needed to call Scott, or Lydia, and try to fill in the gaps in his memory.  He needed to talk to Deaton, mine him for information or at least berate him for his reticence. He needed to track down Derek and grill him for any wisdom his family had to offer.

There were so many things he should do, and he would.  But, first…he had to try.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and dug deep. He felt utterly absurd, sitting cross-legged on his bed and trying to clear a mind that he knew from experience he would never be able to clear, but he pointedly ignored his own discomfort, doing his best to filter the distractions and instead focus on the memory of the sensation itself.  The feeling of heat buried deep within his chest.  The licking of flames at the inside of his ribcage, occasionally simmering, but usually building, growing higher and faster and more intense until it spilled over, burning down his limbs in an uncontrollable inferno.

In the back of his mind, an annoying little voice counted off the seconds, then the minutes.

Maybe if he imagined hard enough, pictured a spark bursting into life…

Four minutes later, his chest remained stubbornly unchanged.

He gave up with an embarrassed groan, suddenly grateful for the lack of witnesses.  _Come on, Stiles.  Grow up._ Honestly, what was he expecting?  If he did have a spark – and that was a big _If,_ it wasn’t like his memory was particularly reliable right now – it only ignited because of the fairy.  The fairy who, thanks to him, was now dead.

_Dark green blood drenching his fingers, sliding down his wrists, dripping from his elbows –_

Stiles shoved the memory away with a grunt and pushed himself off the bed, annoyed.  His self-indulgent test had gotten him nowhere. He needed answers, which meant he had to do what he should have done in the first place.  He needed to call Scott. 

He was still wearing the same clothes from last night, but a quick pat of his pockets confirmed they were empty.  He swept his gaze over his room in search of his phone and crinkled his nose in disgust.  Evidently, housework had taken a backseat to the latest bout of crazy that had enveloped Beacon Hills.  There were articles of clothing strewn across the carpet, black marks streaking the walls, and a thick layer of dust coating his pile of textbooks.

Wait - what?

Stiles froze, then took a cautious step closer to his desk.  His arm shook as he lifted his hand and trailed a finger along the familiar wood.  Sure enough, it created a visible path amidst a good half-inch of dust. 

His heart skipped a beat and he turned to survey the rest of the room with wide eyes.   Then, he swallowed against a sudden fearful lump in his throat.

This wasn’t his room.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  It was his room, but it wasn’t _his_ room.  Now that he was paying attention, the inconsistencies were glaring. 

On his desk sat a calculus textbook from a class he had taken two years ago.  A classic lit textbook was open next to it, and there was nothing in this world that would ever convince him to sign up for that particular class.  The closet door was ajar, revealing a row of snug sweatshirts in a style he never wore, and on the floor lay a crumpled comforter that was decidedly unfamiliar, the bright green colour at odds with his more subtle tastes.

Hair rose on his arms and he clenched his fists, desperately trying to clamp down on his rising panic.  It was all wrong.  Sure, the _room_ was his, and the bed and desk looked the same.  But the devil was in the details, and the details belonged to someone else.

His mind reeled, fumbling for an explanation.  Was he dreaming?  He didn’t think he was, but – no, that literature textbook was definitely readable, if remarkably dull in content.

Was someone messing with his mind?  Possible, but he didn’t think so.  His surroundings felt all-too-real, unfortunately – they didn’t have that strange, dream-like quality that he had endured when the nogitsune trapped him in his subconscious. 

Did the fairy have an accomplice?  That seemed more likely.  Deaton hadn’t been too clear about what fairies were capable of, but the circular clearing appearing in their path certainly suggested reality-warping abilities.  If there _was_ a second fairy, maybe this was some sort of revenge ploy.  A punishment of sorts.

Maybe they were watching him right now.

He licked his lips nervously, his voice scratchy when he worked up the courage to speak.  “Are you…is there someone here?”

There was no response.  The room remained silent, save for that same mechanical whir in the distance. 

“I didn’t mean to do it, I swear.  I _swear._ Please, if you want something from me, just…talk to me.”

Nothing.

The panic was slipping past his defences now, tightening its grip on his chest.  _Come on, Stiles.  Think.  You need answers, and you aren’t going to find them here._

Despite the strangeness of the room, he felt his limbs lock in place, a wave of foreboding washing over him at the thought of leaving.  What was he going to find beyond these walls?  What about beyond the house?

A not-insignificant part of him just wanted to go back to bed and hope he woke up in a world that made sense.

But, no.  He had to go; he knew that with a certainty that he couldn’t explain.  It was more than a gut feeling, more than logic.  It was the same instinct that made him follow Theo through the woods, that led to him copying three shaky letters on a blackboard, that turned his insides to ice when Peter held his wrist and offered him the world.

He’d grown to trust that part of him, over the years.  And now it was screaming at him in no uncertain terms: he needed to find Scott.

Dread made his limbs heavy and slow, but he pushed onward before he could change his mind, turning on his heel and striding out of the room.  The route was familiar, so he relied on muscle memory to navigate the turns, his sharp eyes scouring the details.  Dark fingerprints marred the area around the doorframe.  The dent from Scott and Allison’s breakup, when he had drunkenly stumbled into the wall and tried to pass it off as a fit of clumsiness, was notably absent.  Bland, still-life paintings occupied the space where his family photos used to be, and beneath his feet the floorboards were rippled and uneven, forcing him to cling to the wall so he wouldn’t trip on his way down the stairs.

Somehow, he didn’t break his neck.  His shoes hit the landing with a thump and he automatically turned to the entryway, only to stumble forward on suddenly-numb limbs, his eyes wide in horror.     

There was a glaring hole where his front door used to be.  The frame itself stood where it always had, but the hinges were distorted, twisted, adorned with fragments of wood hanging at odd angles.  The remainder of the door lay battered and broken a few feet away, as though blown inward by a massive force.  Beyond the threshold, a deep fissure split the earth, beginning two feet from his doorstep and zig-zagging through grass and bitumen to end in an explosion of rock and debris halfway down the street.  Piles of broken shingles and fragmented bricks littered the lawn, itself a mess of thigh-high grass and thick weeds, and across the street the neighbour’s house was a picture of abandonment, all shattered windows and torn-off doors and unkempt lawns.

There were no voices.  No slamming of car doors, no honking of horns, no distant music or barking dogs or crying children.  The air was completely still, broken only by that same methodical whir that had been present since he had woken – a whir, he now realised, which was rapidly rising in volume.

Stiles instinctively stepped aside, pressing himself against the inner aspect of the front wall while remaining close enough to the doorway that he could still peer outside.  What _was_ that?  The only machines he could see were the three or four derelict-looking cars rusting in driveways down the street.

Then the whir transformed into a roar and he whipped his head upward, jaw dropping in shock.

A drone had blasted over the opposite row of houses and was now hovering just two doors away - but it looked nothing like any drone he had seen before.  Every inch of it dripped with sophistication, from its sleek black metal to its large size to its four impeccably balanced rotors.  A small cylinder at the nose twisted back and forth, sweeping across the landscape, and Stiles held his breath and tried to shrink further into the shadows.  It had to be a camera, but with the expensive-looking tech driving the rest of the drone, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was more than that.  Maybe it could detect heat signatures, too? 

He supposed he’d find out, if that was the case.  It wasn’t like he could retreat any further into the house – the drone had turned, now, and was slowly tracing a path down the street.  Any flicker of movement would surely catch its attention.

Stiles hugged the wall, holding his breath, his heart pounding.  Slowly, it crept toward his house until it was right on top of him, hovering twenty feet above his head, the camera sweeping incessantly from side to side. For a moment, he could have sworn it looked right at him, and the drone paused, deliberating.   

Then, it moved on, continuing down the street before hooking a right and disappearing out of view.

Stiles didn’t dare move, his limbs frozen with fear.  He strained his ears, focussing intently on the fading whir, and it wasn’t until it disappeared entirely that he finally allowed himself to breathe.  His legs gave way, leaving him to slide down the wall and land unceremoniously on the floor.

Who did the drone belong to?  Why was it here?  _What the hell was going on?_

The questions raced through his mind, but for once he drew a blank.  None of this made sense.  He shivered, rubbing his ear with irritation, the silence oddly oppressive now that the drone was completely out of hearing range.  The air was lifeless, empty, and it made his skin crawl with unease. 

There was a truth that had been creeping through the recesses of his mind from the minute he left his room, and now it slipped into his consciousness, no longer able to be ignored.

He was, for the first time, completely and utterly alone. 


	3. Welcome To Beacon Hills

 

Stiles had been walking for over two hours, and in that time he had learned several things. 

One – he was in much better shape than he thought.  His legs were beginning to ache, but his breaths were deep and even and much more controlled than they would have been even a year ago.  Coach’s insane training sessions were finally starting to pay off – or maybe it was all the running away from chimeras and Beasts and Mexican hunters.

Two – the town wasn’t quite as deserted as it appeared, although it was pretty damn close.  His journey had been marked by endless rows of dreary houses in various states of disrepair, shrouded in an oppressive silence.  At first, he poked his head into a few of the sturdier-looking buildings, only to find overturned furniture, bare shelves, and a thick layer of dust coating everything in sight. 

Occasionally, though, there were signs that he wasn’t alone.  An empty glass on a kitchen bench, still moist from recent use.  A conspicuously clean couch.  A twitch of a curtain in an upstairs window as someone ducked out of sight.  The first time it happened, he called out a cautious greeting and turned toward the movement, only to backpedal hastily at the ensuing angry shout and distinctive click of a safety being flicked off a gun.

He hadn’t tried again after that.

And, three – someone was watching them.  Not him, specifically, but the town in general.  He hadn’t had any more stand-offs with drones, but once he had been forced to duck into a nearby garage as the now-familiar whir tracked a path down a neighbouring street, and at another time he had crested a hill and spotted sunlight glinting off silver-grey paint somewhere in the distance.  The mystery of who owned them still eluded him, but he was almost certain that they were there to keep an eye on the town. 

It was only minutes after this realisation that a familiar two-storey house came into view, making Stiles freeze in horror.  It was as neglected as every other home he had seen, with debris filling the gutters and weeds overtaking the yard.  But this house was different, set apart by the bullet holes riddling its façade and an obtrusive rust-coloured stain on its driveway.  

Recognition struck home with a sinking sensation. He knew this house.  It belonged to Sean Walcott – a friendly kid from a few years below him, instantly recognisable by the permanent spring in his step and quip on his lips. 

Sean, who had sprouted monstrous teeth and attacked Scott on the hospital roof after his family was massacred by an axe-wielding maniac.

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the damage, apprehension creeping around his heart.  Something had happened here, likely some time ago now, but why?  Why was someone spraying bullets in the middle of a residential street?  And whose blood had pooled in the driveway, so thick that it soaked into the concrete and rocks and couldn’t be removed?  Human, or wendigo?  Hunter, or hunted?

A theory was starting to form, and Stiles really, really hoped that he was wrong.

He didn’t enter the house.  Instead, he turned his back on the stain and trudged further down the street.  He wasn’t too far from the centre of town, so sure enough it was only a few turns later that he rounded a corner and found storefronts instead of houses, carparks instead of playgrounds.

It almost exactly as desolate as he expected. The streets were bare, the signs faded.  Most of the store windows were gone, replaced by wooden barriers and thick curtains.  Strangely, though, there were no glass shards littering the pavement.  Somewhere down the line, someone must have cleaned them up.

When Stiles first left his house, he didn’t have any particular destination in mind.  But his feet had travelled of their own accord, slowly but surely drawing him closer to the heart of town, and now he knew where they were headed.  He stepped gingerly down the path, keeping a careful arm’s length from the storefronts on his right, hypervigilant to his peripheries but keeping his gaze steady and focussed straight ahead.

He could still remember the first time he walked this street.  He had been five years old, holding his father’s hand, skipping and jumping to match his stride as they made their way to the traffic lights up ahead.  Noah’s uniform had been crisp and unblemished, the material stiff with newness.  Claudia had been on a grocery run so it was just the two of them, and they had walked – _right there._ Across the road, Noah waving thanks to the stopped cars while Stiles carefully sidestepped a crack in the bitumen, then two shops down to Parker’s Cafe.  The Stilinskis had been in Beacon Hills for less than a week, and Noah had ordered a coffee for himself and juice for his son and listened patiently to Stiles’ spirited story about the boy he’d met in the sandpit.

Except…the traffic lights were blank. 

Stiles stumbled to a halt, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.  There were no drivers to thank, no pedestrians to avoid.  And in place of the cafe was an empty husk, a dilapidated building with a smashed window and empty shelves.

HIs legs trembled, threatening to give way, and for a moment he threw caution to the wind and closed his eyes.

Fuck.  Had he ever felt this powerless?  He hadn’t thought anything could rail him more than the nogitsune.  More than being trapped inside his own body, unable to move or speak or scream as his friends were tortured by his own hand.

And yet, in a way, this was worse.  As bad as the nogitsune was, at least he knew that his friends were _there_.  Even when he could see no way out, some part of him had still held onto a sliver of hope that Lydia would figure it out, that Deaton would uncover some secret legend, that Scott would unleash his claws and stop the threat in its tracks.

But they weren’t here.  No one was, and Beacon Hills was nothing but a deserted wasteland.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, tears spilling over and fists clenching and unclenching at his side, but eventually his heart rate slowed and the knives in his chest eased to a single central ache.  He scrubbed his face with his hand, drawing in one last deep breath and exhaling through pursed lips.

_Come on, Stiles.  Pull it together._

It took all his willpower, but he slowly straightened his back, forcing himself to walk the final dozen steps down the street.  Then he turned right, and there it was.  The Sheriff Station.

The building was almost a second home to Stiles, a place that he had come to associate with comfort, but now, as it stood silhouetted against an overcast sky, a sliver of fear crept up his spine.  Unlike the rest of town, this building actually looked inhabited.  Remarkably clean trucks and cruisers crowded the open parking lot and, although the windows were carefully boarded, he could see strategic gaps littered throughout the barriers and a hint of light filtering through the glass.

Stiles licked his lips, considering.  His instincts were screaming for him to leave, to turn tail and run before it was too late.

But, at the same time, that wasn’t really an option. He needed answers…and besides.  If there was even the slightest chance that his Dad was in there…he couldn’t take that risk.

Stiles stepped forward, eyeing the vehicles curiously as he weaved a path to the building.  They were by no means pristine, but they were definitely well-kept compared to the rust-buckets he has passed on his way into town.  Someone was looking after them.  What that meant was anyone’s guess.

“Hey!” 

The shout was harsh and abrupt, the voice unfamiliar.  It came from the station, and Stiles froze, head swivelling toward the windows, trying to find the source.

“What do you want?” the voice barked.  Maybe from somewhere to the right? 

Hesitantly, Stiles raised his hands in platitude. “It’s Stiles.  Stiles Stilinski.  I’m looking for my dad?” 

There was a brief pause and Stiles held his breath, then his heart plummeted at the unmistakeable sound of a shotgun being cocked.

“The truth, kid, or get the fuck out.”

“I _am_ telling the truth!”  Stiles yelled, desperately.  His gaze was drawn to a glint in the top right window, and he narrowed his eyes against the glare.  If he squinted, he could just make out the barrel of the gun trained at his chest.

“Five seconds,” the voice shouted.  “Five, four…”

“Shit,” Stiles muttered.  Then, louder: “Okay, you got me.  I’m going!”

“Three, two…”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Spinning on his heel, Stiles took off at a sprint, pushing off cars as he darted between them.  A loud crack sounded as he reached the footpath, a sharp pain slicing through his calf just as he threw himself sideways to hide behind the low brick wall that surrounded the lot.

For a moment he held his breath, straining his ears beyond the ringing of the shot.  Would they follow him?  He couldn’t hear any footsteps, no crash of the door banging open. 

His leg throbbed, and he flinched in trepidation as much as in pain.  _Oh, god, please don’t be shot._ His stomach twisted at the thought, his vision clouding for a moment.  He didn’t think he could handle it if he’d been shot.

Grimacing, he twisted awkwardly to inspect the area, and nearly fainted in relief.  “Oh, thank fuck.”   His jeans were torn, crimson blood leaking from a multitude of cuts and abrasions, but there was no gaping holes or bullet wounds.  The shot must have missed, maybe hit the bitumen instead, throwing rocks up to graze his skin.  Two of the cuts were deep enough to need bandaging, but that was it.  He got lucky.

Or, you know, relatively speaking.  He _was_ still injured and huddled outside a building of trigger-happy maniacs, after all.

Stiles groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, muscles aching in protest.  He gingerly tested his weight on his damaged leg, then hissed as his calf flared with pain.

Shit.

He braced himself against the brick, tapping his fingers nervously in an erratic pattern.

_C’mon Stiles, think. Prioritise.  What do you need to survive?_

He needed to get away from here, for starters.

He needed water.

He needed to tend to his leg.

And maybe it wasn’t a need, but at this stage Stiles would give anything to be able to _stop walking_ for a while.

His gaze drifted to the carpark, and Stiles chewed his cheek, considering.  The trucks were too close to the building – he’d probably be shot before he could even open a door.  A better target would be one of the two motorbikes nearer the driveway, but that just opened up a whole new can of worms, since there weren’t any keys in sight and hotwiring was not one of Stiles’ skills.

Sighing, Stiles turned his back on the carpark and instead started the long trek back down the main street.  There were hundreds of abandoned homes in the suburbs, right?  He could hunker down in one of them while he figured out his next move.

He had barely made it one block when he realised he had another problem on his hands.  Blood was leaking down his injured leg, spilling over his shoes to leave a wobbly trail on the concrete.

Stiles frowned, pulling to a stop and huddling against the nearest storefront.  He braced himself against the wall while he shoved his other into his pocket, closing his fingers around the smooth handle of his pocket-knife.  It had been a present from his father a month after the Darach’s defeat, along with a solemn lecture about playing it safe and telling the truth.

_If only Dad could see me now_ , he thought, wryly. Stiles was pretty sure this was not what he had in mind.   

He shrugged off his outer shirt and kneeled on the pavement, spreading it out before him and pulling it taut between his left hand and his knees.  Then he flicked open the knife and, drew the blade down the fabric, cutting off a few rectangular strips several inches wide.

They weren’t great, but they would have to do.

He flinched as he wound the makeshift bandages around his calf, the pressure sending sharp pains stabbing through the muscle. Thankfully, though, it didn’t take long, and soon enough he was tying it off in a rough knot over his shin before bunching the leftover shirt into his left hand and pushing himself back to his feet.   

There.  The wound would still need to be cleaned, but at least he wouldn’t leave a trail for anyone to follow.

Over his head, the clouds were dissipating.  The sun was lower than he had anticipated, creeping close enough to the horizon to send orange streaks across the sky.  Stiles had assumed it was mid-morning when he woke, but unless time had somehow stopped working properly, he was clearly wrong.  If he wanted to find cover before dark, he would have to get moving.

The walk was slow and painful, the road seemingly three times longer than it had been when he first arrived, but eventually he made it past the shops and back into a residential street. 

He stumbled up to the first house he saw.  The door swung open at his touch, and he whispered a thankyou to whoever was listening as he stepped inside.  The living room was dark, but Stiles could make out a good half-inch of dust coating the floorboards and breathed a sigh of relief.

He shuffled past the couch to the kitchen, beelining for the dull silver of the sink.  _Please, please please…_

The faucet sprang to life, clear water cascading into the sink.  Stiles grinned, taking a moment to punch the air in victory before cupping his hands under the sink, filling them with water and raising them to his lips.  The cool fluid was heaven to his dry throat, and he gulped it down as fast as he could, mouthful after mouthful until his thirst finally eased.

Stiles twisted the tap off when he was done.  His stomach growled with hunger, but a quick glance around the kitchen revealed exactly what he expected to find: row after row of bare shelves.  The house had clearly been plundered, just like every other house had explored that day.

Maybe if he tried houses towards the edge of town…but not right now.  Stiles’ limbs were shaking with fatigue, and his injured leg was starting to burn.   It would have to wait.

The electricity didn’t work, but there was enough light for Stiles to do a rough search of the house, and luck was on his side when he unearthed a small first aid kid from the bathroom cupboard.  He settled himself on the edge of the bath, unravelling the bandage and rinsing his wounds before inspecting them one more.  The bleeding had stopped, finally, but the two deeper cuts gaped open, surrounded by an area of angry red swelling. 

Stiles frowned and gave it a poke, then hissed with pain.  Nope, that was not good.

He dug through the first aid kit, setting aside a bandage for later before grabbing hold of a half-empty bottle of Neosporin.  Hopefully, it would be enough.  He gave the whole area a generous spray, wincing at the inevitable sting, then attempted to close the wounds with steri-strips.  It didn’t work terribly well – Stiles suspected from experience that he really needed stitches – but, oh well.  There wasn’t much he could do about that.

Finally, he wound a fresh bandage over the area, then shoved everything back into the first aid kit and limped out of the bathroom in search of a bed.

Tomorrow, he would have to venture out once more, and hopefully he would actually find some answers.

Right now, though, he needed to rest.


	4. Search and Rescue

 

Stiles woke with a foggy head, slow thoughts, and heavy limbs. 

It had been a long night of fitful sleep, dreams of clawing long-fingered hands interspersed with flashes of colour, and once or twice he had woken to echoes of an animalistic howl.

Somehow, though, he cobbled together a few hours of rest before waking somewhat-refreshed to a sky pale with pre-dawn light.  It would have been peaceful if it weren’t for the rhythmic distant hum or a drone – but, instead, he winced at the sound and rolled onto his back with a sigh.

_Not a dream, then._

As if in confirmation, his whole body throbbed, one giant bruise from his head to his toes.  The edges of exhaustion dragged at his limbs, and his stomach threatened to gnaw right through his abdomen.  Fuck, he was hungry - ravenous, even.  That would have to be his second priority for the day.

First, though, he had to check on his leg.  Groaning, he pushed himself out of bed and limped into the bathroom, then sat down to unwind the bandage.  He winced as he peeled it back, eyes catching on an area the size of his palm that was deep red, hot to touch, and dripping with thick yellow ooze.

Infected.  Fan-fucking-tastic.

Stiles had been a _spirited_ child, for lack of a better word, so he had plenty of experience with cuts and bruises and broken bones.  Somewhere along the line, he had learned which injuries he could manage himself and which ones needed proper medical care, and this was definitely the latter.  But the whole point was moot, really – all he had was the little bottle of Neosporin, so that would have to do.  He pulled it out, now, and sprayed it generously over the area while hissing quietly at the sting, then waited just long enough for his pained tremors to subside before replacing the bandage and heaving himself back to his feet. 

_Nothing more to do for that.  Let’s get going._

There was nothing new to be found in the bathroom, but Stiles limped slowly through the rest of the house, poking his head into every room in the hopes that the sunlight might reveal some hidden treasures that he’d missed the night before.  He tried not to feel too disappointed when he didn’t find any food, but he did console himself with an empty backpack retrieved from the back of a closet, immediately slipping the first aid kit and the rest of the Neosporin inside before slinging it over his shoulder.  Then he stopped at the kitchen for a final drink of water before making his way through the front door and back into the street.

As far as plans went, his current one wasn’t particularly inspired.  He was limited by his leg and his hunger, so he would search the nearby houses and hope he unearthed something useful.  That was it.  He tried to be methodical, sticking to the one side of the street and making sure to check in each and every house, including the ones that looked like they might collapse around his ears – after all, they were probably less likely to ransacked than the others.

The first three houses were duds, and they all told a similar story.  Cupboards flung open, rooms stripped bare, furniture overturned – someone had already stripped them all bare.  His heart sank further with each one, and he found himself desperately clinging to his last shred of optimism as he trudged hopelessly toward house number four.

Then he spotted them.  There, in the dark corner of the walk-in pantry, covered in dust and forgotten: two faded tins of pre-made spaghetti.

“Jackpot.”

Stiles grinned, grabbing both tins eagerly and tearing the lid off the first in a sudden burst of energy.  He didn’t bother trying to find a spoon, instead bringing the tin to his lips and tipping the food into his mouth, gulping it down frantically, his stomach groaning in relief. 

The sauce was cold, the pasta rubbery, and yet: “I’m never going to complain about pre-made food again,” Stiles decided, scraping his fingers along the rim and licking off the last of the sauce. “Melissa, I owe you one hell of an apology – this stuff is amazing.  Incredible.  Spectacular, even.  I take back every argument I ever made against it.”

The meal was done within minutes.  Stiles dropped the empty tin carelessly onto the floor, then eyed the second one greedily.  Surely just a little bit would be okay…but, no.    “Survival 101, Stilinski,” he muttered, carefully placing it into his backpack before levering himself to his feet.  “Rationing.  Don’t be that guy.

“Also, it only took you twenty-four hours to start talking to yourself,” he added, flippantly.  The rest of the kitchen was empty, so he wandered out the door to work his way through the bedrooms instead.  “Is that good?  Is there an acceptable time frame for insanity when you suddenly wake up in a post-apocalyptic reality?  There’s something to google when I get home.”

_If home still exists._ Stiles tried to push the thought to the back of his mind and failed miserably.

Stiles, after all, wasn’t renowned for his physical prowess.  He wasn’t the fastest, or the strongest, or even the most charismatic member of the pack, but there was one thing he excelled at: theorising.  He had had ample opportunity to do just that in the last two days, and he wasn’t sure he liked where it led.

Because he had seen more than enough sci-fi films to be able to recognise that he was in an alternate reality.  At the very least, he didn’t think that he was dreaming, he knew he wasn’t crazy, and he couldn’t find any proof that fairies were nearby, which meant that something must have happened when the fairy died.  Some strange burst of magic, perhaps, that dragged him into this weird abandoned town where people hid behind closed curtains and his bedroom belonged to someone else. 

What he really hated, though, were the questions that followed, sending his heart racing and his mind whirling.  Because, if he _was_ stuck in an alternate universe (and he could almost see Lydia’s epic eye-roll just at the thought), the next question was what _type_ of alternate universe was he in?  Was this a parallel universe that existed alongside his own, maybe allowing people to travel back and forth?  Or was this simply a re-done version of his own world, where some change in the past had altered the events of reality forever? 

Fear burned his throat, and he shook his head.  “Get a grip, Stiles,” he muttered.  This whole train of thought was a pointless exercise – even if his world was still in existence, there was nothing he could do about it right now.

What he needed to do was focus on survival.

He turned his attention to house number five, clenched his fists, and kept moving.

His luck must have finally turned, because although the house itself was empty, he struck gold in the built-in garage when he spied rusting bike tucked away behind a long-dead car.  He did hesitate a moment, glancing doubtfully at his injured leg, but then rolled his eyes and limped toward it.  Hey, it beat walking.

His head swam slightly at he swung himself onto the seat, nausea briefly turning his stomach, but he shook it off and turned his attention to his next problem: he needed antibiotics, and he needed them now.  The hospital was the obvious choice, but he discarded that option almost as soon as he considered it.  Not only was it on the other side of town, but there was almost zero chance that it hadn’t already been plundered – and, besides, it had a back-up generator.  What if there was someone already there?  He wasn’t in any shape to deal with another firefight.

On the other hand, there was the McCall house.  Melissa had always kept the house well-stocked with medical supplies, and it stood a better chance of being overlooked by scavengers, being somewhat isolated on the outskirts of town. 

Of course, it was entirely possible that Melissa didn’t exist in this weird, empty universe. 

He grimaced, trying to push that thought of his mind before it could root itself too deeply, and kicked off from the ground to ride the familiar route.

* * *

 

The door was locked.  Stiles frowned and tugged at the handle, equally confused and frustrated by the unexpected obstacle.  Most of the places he had tried had broken doors or at the very least broken locks from when someone had smashed the doors open in the past.  But not here, apparently, so after a minute Stiles gave up on the door and aimed instead for the living room window, reluctantly wrapping his hand in the remnants of his shirt and smashing his fist into the glass.

It was already cracked, so it broke surprisingly easily.  The opening wasn’t huge, but Stiles knew from experience that he could fit, so he knocked out as many sharp edges as he could find before squirming inside.  Somehow, he managed to avoid slicing himself open, so it was only moments later that he clambered to his feet and took his first real look at the room.

The first thing that struck him was how tidy it was.  Compared to the destruction he had been seeing all morning, this room was positively well-kept.  The furniture stood exactly where it always had, covered only by a thin layer of dust, and the remainder of the windows were more-or-less intact.  There was a stillness to the air that screamed of emptiness, and yet it didn’t have the same abandoned feel as the other houses in town.

A flicker of hope warmed his chest.  Surely, it couldn’t be that simple, but still…  “Scott?” he called out, hesitantly.

He strained his ears but, sure enough, there was no reply.

Stiles set his jaw, stifling a disappointed sigh, and limped deeper into the house.

It wasn’t a long search.  The kitchen was unsurprisingly empty, but everything else seemed to be intact – including, fortunately, Melissa’s wonderful medical cabinet in the bathroom.  Stiles wasted no time in uncapping a bottle of antibiotics and swallowing one dry.

He steered clear of Melissa’s bedroom, unable to overcome his ingrained respect for her privacy, but poked his head into Scott’s room and the guest room before heading back outside, less than twenty minutes after arriving.

His next destination wasn’t far – it used to only take Scott about fifteen minutes.  But between Stiles’ burning leg and increasing cloudy head, it was a full half hour before he finally rolled to a stop in front the animal clinic – or, at least, this world’s version of it, complete with broken doors, defaced walls and smashed windows.

Stiles kicked the bike stand into place, staggering slightly as he dismounted.  He was oddly light-headed, the pavement rocking beneath his feet, and he found himself clinging to the clinic’s doorframe with more desperation than he would have liked.

_Okay, that’s not ideal._ _Come on, antibiotics.  Do your thing._

With one hand trailing along the wall, Stiles walked into the building and flinched at the sight of the trashed waiting room.  Still, he pressed on, weaving through the debris and heading for the treatment room at the back of the building.  He wasn’t surprised to find it in a similar condition to the front but, thankfully, the back wall was still in one piece. 

Stiles wasn’t sure when he first discovered Deaton’s hidden cabinet – maybe during the kanima disaster?  But, somewhere along the line, he had nagged Deaton into showing him the ropes, which the vet did only on the condition that Stiles never opened it unless there was a dire emergency and Deaton couldn’t be reached.

Until now, he had never needed to do it.

The cabinet was well-crafted, blending almost perfectly into the wall, designed to be easily overlooked.  Stiles held his breath as he slid his long fingers carefully over the smooth surface, feeling for the barely-perceptible locks.  One at the top, one to his left, and if he pressed both simultaneously and held them for three seconds…

_There._

With a soft click, the door unlatched.  Stiles grinned, shifting his weight to his heels and drinking in the sight.  There, before him, was row after row of heavily-laden shelves, filled with bottles of herbs and strange liquids, and best of all: a small library of ancient-looking books, carefully curated by the vet-turned-Emissary, containing all the written words he could find on the strange and unnatural and occult beings out there in the world.

It was beautiful.

And then a heavy thud sounded from behind him, and his stomach flooded with dread.

It was a footstep, and it was soon followed by another, and another.  Someone was in the waiting room, and they were getting closer. 

_Shit._ Stiles’ heart pounding against his ribs, and he hastily swung closed the cabinet and spun on his heel.  He swept frantic eyes over the room, looking for somewhere to hide, before finally landing on an overturned bench near the door. 

He barely made it three steps.  The door flung open, freezing him in his tracks, and he snapped his gaze toward it to find a large figure filling the frame, all broad shoulders and tense hands and glaring eyes.

_Familiar_ glaring eyes.

“Derek?” Stiles croaked, sagging with relief.

The werewolf’s brow furrowed; his glare intensified.  “How do you know my name?”

Oh. 

Stiles eyes stung, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. _Fuck._ He probably should have expected that, all things considered, but _still._ Was it too much to ask for one little break in this fucked-up world? 

Derek blurred slightly, and Stiles blinked him back into focus.  He looked almost exactly as Stiles remembered: short dark hair, stubble, wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans.  But his shoulders were stiff, his hands clenched, and deep grooves lined his mouth.  Most disconcerting of all, his face was taut with the familiar, closed-off look that he had once worn almost constantly, but which had disappeared somewhere between kanimas and darachs and alphas and nogitsunes.

“I know you’re after something,” Derek accused, abruptly, cutting through Stiles’ thoughts.  The werewolf seemed bothered by Stiles’ stare, a flicker of anger crossing his face as he stepped closer.  “You were at the McCalls’, then you biked straight here.  Why?  What are you looking for?”

Ugh.  Stiles’ lip curled.

He’d forgotten how much of an ass Derek had been when they first met.  All the grunting and snarling and shoving him around…it was a personality trait that he hadn’t missed once.  Just his luck he’d end up stuck with a version of Derek who’d apparently never changed for the better. 

A version who was still waiting for an answer, with rapidly fading patience.

“Cut it out,” Stiles finally answered, tone a lot more irritated than he had planned before he opened his mouth.  Mind you, he _was_ irritated, now that he thought about it.  “I’ve had one measly tin of food in the last thirty-six hours, I’m sick, I’m exhausted, and I’m probably stuck here with no way home, and I’m really not in the mood.  So, drop the attitude, already.”  The floor lolled and Stiles swayed, leaning into the wall behind him and mustering all his strength to glare at the man blocking the exit.

Derek’s eyebrows scrunched together, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed.  “You’re unwell,” he realised, sounding oddly surprised.

“Well spotted, genius.”  Stiles really wished the floor would stop moving.  In the last few seconds it had progressed from rocking to full-blown spinning, which was torture for his stomach.  “When did you enrol in medical school?” 

“You’re not healing,” Derek said, still sounding confused.

“Perks of being human, I guess.”

There was a soft haze over his vision, so he was having trouble making out Derek’s features, but Stiles thought he saw a contemplative expression drift over the werewolf’s features.  He didn’t have time to question it, though, as his stomach chose that moment to lurch horribly.  He swallowed, trying to push back the wave of bile, but it was too much: dropping to his knees, he had just enough to time to lean his weight onto his arms before he heaved, vomiting water and bile and the remnants of his spaghetti breakfast all over the tiled floor.

It was over in seconds, and when it was done he groaned, resting on his haunches and burying his face in shaky hands.  Even now, sitting on the floor, the room continued to swim, and he struggled to catch his breath.  He was covered in sweat, but he still shivered, his teeth chattering, ice cold despite the summer heat.

Then he remembered that he wasn’t alone, and he twisted slightly to glance up at Derek, who hadn’t moved an inch but now looked significantly more uneasy. 

“Look, I’m not your enemy,” Stiles sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his thumbs over his temples in a vain attempt to block out the vertigo.  “I just want to go home.”

“How?” 

The question echoed strangely through his mind, but Stiles didn’t get a chance to answer.   His hands went strangely numb as a loud ringing filled his ears, and the last thing he felt before the world slipped away was strong hands catching him as he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys, this chapter was a bitch and a half.  I ended up rewriting it three times and I’m still not super-happy with it, but I didn’t want to wait too much longer.  Next one should bit a bit quicker (hopefully!)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  


	5. Reunions

 

There were worried voices, a spoon pushed into his mouth, a cup pressed to his lips.  There was sweat beading on his forehead, nausea turning his stomach, fatigue weighing down his limbs. Once, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his leg and cried out, only to be soothed by gentle hands and a familiar voice. 

He swam in and out of consciousness, until finally he woke.

The first thing he noticed was a splitting headache, starting at his neck and arcing to his temples.  The next thing was the pain that encompassed his whole body, spreading from a point on his right leg that throbbed in time with his heart.  His lips were cracked and dry, and when he swallowed his throat felt raw.

His vision was blurry and his muscles limp, and it took all his strength to push himself into a sitting position.  The room immediately started spinning, and he tightened one fist in the bedsheets and pressed the other to his forehead, desperately trying to ground himself.

Bit by bit, the world steadied, until finally he lowered his arm and, blinking away the last tendrils of fog, turned his attention to his surroundings.  He was in a bed, which for some reason was pushed into the centre of a dilapidated wooden room.  Directly in front of him, a single door led to an equally decrepit hallway.  There were no pictures on the walls and no windows, and the only other furniture was an uncomfortable-looking chair in the corner.

Where the hell _was_ he?

Only one way to find out, he supposed.  With a grimace, Stiles tossed back the sheet, taking note of the fresh bandage decorating his calf, and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.

That was his first mistake.  The moment he leaned forward, a fresh wave of agony pulsed through his skull, forcing him to double over and clutch his temples in anguish. “ _Fuck!"_

The pain throbbed in response, shorting out any further thoughts he might have had.  Thankfully, though, it lasted only seconds before starting to ease, and Stiles scrunched his eyes shut and drew ragged breaths through his nose and tightened his grip on his skull as he waited for it to pass.

It was only halfway gone when he heard footsteps – heavy and scattered, drawing closer by the second.  His heart jumped, and he snapped his attention to the door just in time to see two figures burst into the room.

Then the blood drained from his face, sending his world spinning once more.

“S- Scott?”  Stiles stuttered over the name, his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.  The boy was standing closest to the door, a few feet behind Derek, staring at him with cautious dark eyes., and Stiles nearly cried at the sheer _relief_ that washed over him. “Oh, man.  Thank god you’re here.”

Scott hesitated, confusion briefly flitting over his face.

He opened his mouth as though to reply, then thought better of it and instead turned uncertainly to Derek.

And Stiles felt his last shred of hope crumble into despair.

A sharp pain stabbed into his chest, catching his last remaining breath.  _Oh, no.  Not now._

It was no use though – he didn’t have any energy left to fight it.  His eyes stung, and he buried his face into his hands just in time to catch the tears as they spilled over, dampening his palms and moistening his cheeks.  A sob rose in his chest, and he felt his cheeks flush in humiliation.

Somewhere to his left, he vaguely registered a soft footstep, followed by a hastily whispered “Don’t.”

“Derek, look at him.”  That was Scott, his voice low and concerned.  “He’s not a threat.”

He couldn’t make out Derek’s reply, but the older man must have been convincing, because Scott huffed and didn’t come any closer.

It took a full five minutes for Stiles to pull himself together, and then only a second for the embarrassment to crash into him full force.  Oh god.  He had just bawled like an actual child in front of two people who apparently didn’t know who he was.  So much for first impressions.  Maybe if he just kept his hands over his face, they would get the hint and leave him alone?

“Are you ready to talk?”

Yeah, so much for that.

He swallowed harshly, drew in one last shaky breath, then lowered his hands and looked up.  The two werewolves were standing just inside the door, Derek hovering protectively a few feet in front of Scott and eyeing him with an unreadable stare.

“What do you want to talk about?” Stiles asked, dully.

“How about your name, for starters?”  There was only the slightest hint of sarcasm in Derek’s voice.

“Stiles.”

“Just Stiles?”

“Stiles Stilinski.”

Scott’s eyes widened.  Stiles looked over, interested, and was just about to question him before Derek cut him off, barging onward with his own interrogation. “Alright, Stiles.  What are you?”

Surprised, Stiles lost his train of thought and instead stared at Derek in confusion.  “Uh – human, last time I checked.  Why?”

“You said that before.”  Derek’s eyebrows drew closer together as he scowled.  “It’s a bad lie.  I want the truth.”

“I’m _telling_ you the truth!” Stiles snapped.  An irritated heat ignited in his chest, and for the first time since waking he met Derek’s glare with one of his own.  God, he’d forgotten how freaking _frustrating_ Derek used to be.  “Why would I lie?”

“You tell me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he aggravated his headache.  “Fuck off, Derek.  I’m not playing this game – and you suck at this, by the way. Just, all of it, the whole interrogation thing in general.  Thanks for not letting me pass out in a puddle of my own vomit, or whatever, but I’m done being intimidated by you.”

Derek’s eyes blazed red.

Stiles froze, shocked.

And then Scott was there, stepping forward with a brief placating touch on Derek’s arm before crouching to rummage beneath bed.  When he stood back up, he was clutching a bottle of water.  “Here,” he said, thrusting it toward Stiles.  “Your voice sounds awful.”

Derek grunted, and Scott shot him a warning look before turning back to Stiles, who was busy gulping down mouthfuls of wonderful, magical water.  “Take it easy,” he warned. “It’s been a while since you had something to drink."

“How long is that?” Stiles asked – and, oh yeah, that was much better.  His throat felt slightly less like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

“Derek brought you here just over a day ago.  I managed to get a few sips of water and some crushed antibiotics into you, otherwise I would have tried to get a drip going.  I was going to do that today, regardless, if you didn’t wake up.”

Stiles shuddered dramatically.  “Well, there’s a terrifying thought.”

“Hey!”

Stiles laughed briefly, then fell silent as his gaze drifted from Scott to Derek, who was still glaring at him from a few feet away – close enough to jump in if Stiles tried anything, and judging by the tension in his shoulders, he was prepared to do just that.

“Derek, buddy, come on,” Stiles groaned, careful to keep the heat out of his voice.  “You can stand down; I’m not in any shape to attack you right now.  Maybe tomorrow.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  Derek’s eyes narrowed, and Scott took a quick half-step back.

“Here’s the thing,” Derek growled, stepping closer so he was once again in front of Scott and folding his arms over his chest.  “I don’t trust you.  If you were human, you wouldn’t be here.  And you act like you know us, but we don’t know you.  And your scent,” - he cut himself off, clenching a fist to hide suddenly-trembling fingers, before finishing in a tone so soft that Stiles had to strain to pick out the words.  “It doesn’t make sense.”

Stiles wanted to be angry.  It was easier to be angry than to be tired, but when was anything ever easy?

Because, yeah, Derek was right.  It didn’t make sense, and so he felt his anger melt away in the space of a breath, leaving his chest hollow and cold.

“Yeah, okay.”   Stiles sighed, shuffling back onto the mattress and carefully clinging onto his water bottle with his knees.  He let his hands fall limply onto the sheets beside him, and looked up at them with a weary gaze.  “This is going to sound nuts, though,” he warned, taking an extra moment to stare meaningfully at Scott.  “I know you’re sceptical at the best of times, but try to keep an open mind, okay?"

Scott pursed his lips but nodded, rigidly.

It was probably the most Stiles was going to get.  “Right,” he muttered, before digging his fingers into the sheets in an effort to psych himself up.  “Here’s the thing.  I think I’m from an alternate reality.” 

* * *

 

It took over an hour.

Over an hour of answering trivia questions about the minutiae of Scott and Derek’s lives, trying to prove that he had knowledge that he couldn’t otherwise possess.

Of explaining about the fairy, walking Derek through every detail he could remember about the night everything changed, the werewolf’s expression carefully blank as he listened intently, for once absorbing the information rather than judging it.

Of detailing everything had done since he arrived, from the trek into town to the gunshot to the search for food to the search for medicine.

Eventually, though, he lapsed into silence, until Derek abruptly stood and left without so much as a word, face pale and cheeks hollow.

“Is he okay?” Stiles wondered aloud, when it became clear that the older man wasn’t returning.

“No.”  Scott’s voice wasn’t judgemental, just honest.  “He’s spent nine years thinking Cora was dead.  Now you’re saying she might be alive, and he’s stuck here…I think he just needs some space.” 

Stiles frowned, feeling his curiosity peak now that the overwhelming stress and fear was starting to ebb for the first time in days.  “What do you mean, he’s stuck here?”

The werewolf hesitated, then dug into his pocket and pulled out a packet of pills.  “Here,” he said, rather than answering, holding it out to Stiles.  “You’re overdue for your antibiotics.”

Stiles grimaced, grabbing it from his hand and popping out a large tablet.  Scott ignored his expression and instead nodded to Stiles’ bandages.  “I need to look at your leg, too.” 

Stiles swung his legs back onto the bed and gestured for him to go ahead, then swallowed the pill.  He flipped the packet over in his hands, tracing the name with interest.  “These are different to the ones I had.”  

Scott nodded, pulling a med kit out from under the bed and starting on the bandages.  “You had diclox, which is great for clean cuts but less great if they’re dirty.  These are better.”

“If you say so,” Stiles conceded, breezily.  “I probably should have paid more attention to your mum’s lessons.”  He ignored Scott’s suddenly-stiff shoulders in favour of inspecting his wound, only to recoil in disgust.  The laceration was surrounded by angry, puckered skin, the bottom layer of bandage soaked in blood-stained yellow pus.

“It’s actually a lot better than it was,” Scott assured, noticing his expression. 

“Great,” Stiles grunted, pinching his nose dramatically.  “Can we cover that up again, now, please?  Before I pass out?”

Scott shook his head, but not before Stiles caught a hint of a smile.  “Let me clean it first.”

Stiles sighed, resting back on his elbows and leaving Scott to do his thing.  He let his gaze drift to the werewolf, lingering on the slight differences that had initially escaped his attention.  The hair that was an inch too long and unevenly cut, the slight pallor to his complexion, the smooth, unmarked skin where his tattoo should be.  This wasn’t his best friend, and yet…despite everything, Stiles felt himself relax, instinctively comforted by the other boy’s presence.  This whole situation felt a lot less dire with Scott by his side.

Speaking of which.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened here?”

Scott bit his lip, unwrapping a fresh bandage with a level of focus that would be better suited to defusing a bomb.  Then he shook his head.  “Derek doesn’t trust you.”

“Derek doesn’t trust anybody.”

That earned him a sharp glance.  “You don’t know him, even if your story is true.  I’m not going to go behind his back.”

Ah, there was that patented Scott McCall loyalty.  Trust it to show up at the worst possible time.

Stiles pressed his lips together, deliberately turning his gaze to the ceiling so Scott wouldn’t catch the heat of his glare.  “Man, I’ve been here three days and I’m already more homesick than you could imagine,” he muttered.  Scott twitched, but his hands were steady as started tying off the bandage.  “I miss the version of you who trusted me over Derek.  You know you’re an alpha in my world?” 

That got a response – Scott fumbled the knot badly enough that bandage became partially unravelled.

“You make a much better alpha than Derek, thank god,” Stiles rambled, pretending not to notice.  “Less pushing people around, more saving the town every other week.  You even managed to make your own pack.  I mean, Liam’s the only one who’s actually a werewolf, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  We might be that weird cliquey group that everyone avoids, but we’ve got each other, you know?”

Stiles’ voice cracked slightly on the last word, and Scott, who had been carefully avoiding his gaze, finally looked up with concern.  

Stiles waved a hand, dismissively.  “I’m fine,” he lied.  “I just wish they were here right now.  Or – well, no.  I miss them, but I’m glad they’re safe.  And I really hope they don’t do anything stupid to try to find me.”

A thought struck, and Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.  “Unless they think I’m dead.  I wonder if Lydia screamed for me?”

That got a reaction.  Scott jerked in shock, then whipped around so he was facing Stiles head-on.  His jaw worked as he desperately tried to maintain a neutral expression, but Stiles could clearly see the multitude of questions surging just beneath the surface.

Stiles bit down on his tongue, forcing himself to remain silent.

See, Stiles had displayed a talent for mischief since his toddler years, so whenever he and Scott had landed in trouble as children, people always fingered him as the ‘mastermind’, the ‘troublemaker’, the ‘ringleader’.  But Stiles knew better.  Scott had a curious streak almost as wide as Stiles – it was just that, normally, he was better at keeping it in check.  Given the right motivation, however…

Sure enough, Scott’s nosiness won out.  “Lydia Martin?” he clarified.  At Stiles’ nod, he continued: “Why do you think she would scream?”

That wasn’t the question Stiles was expecting.  He stared at the werewolf, jaw slack with astonishment. “Wait, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Oh, boy.”  Stiles’ face twisted as he tried to decide the best way to phrase it, before finally just blurting it out in a tumble of words.  “Lydia’s a banshee.  She can predict death – kind of, anyway.  Whenever it gets close she screams in warning – although, to be honest, if it gets to that point it’s really too late to do anything about it anyway.” 

Scott gaped, apparently lost for words, so Stiles kept talking just to fill the silence.  “It was pretty awful when her powers first started up, since we weren’t really friends then and none of us had any idea what was going on.  But she’s got a handle on them now, and they’re actually pretty useful.  Could do without her predicting _my_ death all the freaking time, though.  Anyway, Scotty, you okay in there? Still with me?”

The boy in question gave himself a shake, blinking a few times before meeting Stiles’ gaze and twisting his lips into a pained imitation of a smile.  “Yeah, I’m here.  Just thinking.”

“About what?” 

Stiles didn’t really expect an answer and Scott didn’t disappoint, merely shaking his head in reply.  His shoulders slumped, though, a sad expression washing over his features, and when he glanced over at Stiles his eyes were soft, the guardedness from moments ago seemingly gone. 

“You really don’t know about the Revelation?” Scott asked, doubtfully.

Stiles slowly shook his head.  “I literally have no idea what you’re on about.”

Scott sighed, then dragged the nearby chair over to the bedside and dropped into it.  “It’s not a secret.  It’s just not something I love to talk about.”  He hesitated, but then pushed onward, seemingly making up his mind.  “I don’t know who gave it that name.  The press, probably.  Anyway, it caught on, and now it’s known as the Revelation.  The day that everyone found out about us.”

Scott’s voice was soft, filled with an old pain.   It was the same voice that he had used the afternoon that Stiles and Scott had finally sat down and talked about the nogitsune.  The same voice he had used when they talked about Donavan.

Stiles hated that voice.

“Before it happened…I thought that we were the only ones, you know?  Peter and Derek and me.”  Scott seemed to be talking to himself as much as Stiles, gaze darting back and forth between Stiles and his own fidgety hands.  “I mean, I knew there had to be other werewolves somewhere, but I never dreamed there’d be so many, let alone so many other types of creatures.  I guess I thought that so long as we kept our secret, we would be safe. The hunters wouldn’t expose us, since that would complicate their black-and-white views on whether we should live or die.”

The pieces were coming together, and Stiles’ stomach churned.  “Some of them definitely think like that,” he offered, quietly, when Scott paused to collect himself.  “But some are willing to change their methods, for better or for worse.”

Scott nodded, wearily.  “Yeah.  The ones that caused this are of the ‘for worse’ variety.  They went to the government and, somehow, they got them on their side.  And then the press found out.

“It went to hell pretty quickly after that.  People were terrified, and I guess they had every reason to be.  Hunters were standing with officials on TV, telling them that the world was filled with monsters hiding in plain sight – rabid dogs that could snap at a moment’s notice.  And it just escalated from there.  People picked up guns and knives, and they started searching for supernaturals amongst their neighbours, their family, their friends.  They slaughtered hundreds in their own homes.”

Stiles’ gut twisted, horror seeping through his skin, the rust-stain from the Walcotts' driveway suddenly vivid in his mind’s eye.  “How did you survive?”

“I ran.”  Scott’s voice was distant, a thousand miles and god knew how many months away.  “I don’t think Mum knew how bad it was going to get, but she knew I wasn’t safe.  So she packed me a bag, told me to stay close to Derek, and sent me away before the violence really peaked.  And we actually managed to stay out of it all for months before the military caught us and dumped us back in here.”

Stiles frowned.  “Why here?  Why not kill you?”

“Because when people stopped panicking, they realised the story didn’t make sense,” Scott replied, tone uncharacteristically sour.  “There were so many of us – if we were so dangerous, why didn’t anyone notice sooner?  Where were all the dead bodies that were supposedly littering our paths?

“Anyway, eventually the government decided that they couldn’t just murder us all, but they also weren’t willing to state that we weren’t a threat.   So they came up with the _brilliant_ idea of building containment camps while they decide what to do with us, and since they _still_ haven’t figured that out…well.  Here we are.”

Stiles’ mind was dizzy with activity, a hundred new questions forming for each morsel of information he processed away.  “So, everyone in town is supernatural?” he clarified, grabbing for one at random.

Scott nodded, but his eyes darted to the right and Stiles narrowed his eyes.  Scott had never been a good liar.  He considered calling him out on it, but reigned himself in with an effort.  The werewolf barely trusted him as it was. 

Filing that note away for later, Stiles instead asked: “Who were the people at the Sheriff’s station?”

A flash of anger briefly contorted Scott’s features.  “That’s…complicated.”  There was a firmness to his tone that effectively ended that line of questioning before it even began.

“Have you tried leaving?”

Scott snorted, his features softening again.  “Ever seen Jurassic Park?  Think huge electrified fence, except with wolfsbane and mountain ash.  Beacon Hills is one giant cage, and it was built for us.”

“My dad?  Noah Stilinski?”

This time, Scott hesitated.  “He’s really your dad?”

“Yeah.  Is he okay?”

A flash of grief crossed Scott’s face, and Stiles’ chest constricted.  _It’s not Dad,_ he reminded himself.  _It’s not him.  This guy probably didn’t even have a kid._ It didn’t help.  The vice around his lungs remained tight and he struggled to hear over a sudden buzzing in his ears.

“There was a riot, that first day,” Scott was saying.  His voice was strangled; clearly, even without Stiles to bring them together, he had some sort of bond with the Sheriff.  “He was trying to help contain it, but it got out of hand.  He was caught in the crossfire.”

Stiles closed his eyes, pushing back tears.  _It’s not him.  It’s not him_.   “Your mum?” he forced out.

Scott’s eyes crinkled with pain and he shook his head, wordlessly.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles croaked, hoarsely.  The words felt flimsy, a useless sentiment that was far too little and far too late, and Scott didn’t respond.  Stiles couldn’t blame him. 

He hated to push, but he was sure the other boy was almost at the end of his rope, and he needed to know. “Kira?  Malia?”

“Who?”  Scott stared through him, blankly, mind lost in a memory that Stiles was for once grateful he couldn’t see.  “Should I know them?”

“I guess not,” Stiles admitted.  “Deaton?”

“I think he was evacuated with the rest of the town.”

“Jordan Parrish?”

“No idea."

“Right.”

They lapsed into silence, Stiles turning over the details in his mind and Scott staring at the wall.  There was no sound save for the soft movement of air as they breathed, and it wasn’t until the shadows were starting to lengthen that Scott finally shifted in his seat.

He took a shuddering breath, then set his jaw and turned to face Stiles.  “So, do you have any idea how to get home?”

Stiles shook his head, wordlessly, too hollow to even feel anxious at the words.

Scott’s mouth tightened, his grief briefly melting into worry.

“Yep,” Stiles muttered, turning his gaze back to the floor.  “Sucks, right?”

 


	6. Packs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note that this fic is set pre-season 6 (mostly because that's when I started writing it). So Kira has left, but the Ghost Riders/Hunt etc hasn't happened.

_Shadows twisted out from contorted tree trunks, interlacing and parting ways, dancing a slow waltz in the night breeze.  On another day the sight might have caused chills, but now he was oddly comforted by the movement.  Movement meant life, and the woods were bursting with it._

_He followed the natural path between the trunks, shadows passing over him to sink into the darkness beyond.  His feet always found purchase, his breaths drew soft and even, and his mind soaked in the sounds.  The beat of wings as an insect took flight, the scrabble of paws as a mouse scampered across the path.  Leaves whispering to his left, the mournful cry of a bird overhead.  And beneath it all, soft and steady and drawing him ever onward, the soft_ thump thump _of a heartbeat._

_Time lost all meaning, his legs never tiring and his breaths never flagging, and it could have been minutes or hours or days before the first fingers of soft sunlight filtered through the canopy.  The black silhouettes faded to grey as the trees thinned, and the path broadened into a clearing._

_Beneath his feet, the thick layer of leaves gave way to a carpet of soft, green grass.  It was unmarred, unbroken; a perfect circle of life ringed by a natural wall of tall, evenly-spaced trees._

_And there, in the centre, was the source._

_It was crumpled, bent over and turned away, and from here he couldn’t see its face.  But the_ thump thump _pulled him forward, his feet moving beyond his control until he found himself directly before it, and then he raised his head and looked._

_Accusing black eyes stared back at him.  Green blood leaked from its mouth and dripped off its chin.  One hand clutched fruitlessly at the rod thrust through its chest, fingers clenching and unclenching on the iron, and its neck arched backward as a guttural cry tore from its throat._

_And reality sliced into Stiles like a knife.  He cried out, horrified, his stomach clenching as he stumbled back, raising his arms defensively in front of his face –_

“Stiles!”

Eyes flying open, Stiles jumped at the sight of a face inches from his own.  He yelped, flailing his arms wildly, and threw himself bodily to the left in a desperate attempt to escape.   

“Stiles, calm down.”  The voice was quieter, now, but it carried an edge of authority that pulsed a wave of calm through Stiles’ veins, catching his breath and slowing it by a hair.  “It’s just me.  It’s Scott.”

Scott.  Of course.  He was with Scott.

Stiles grasped onto the thought, locking his gaze to familiar brown eyes.  Another pulse washed over him, and he felt the calm settle across his shoulders as his heart finally began to slow.

“That’s it.  Just breathe for a minute.”

Just breathe.  Okay.  He could do that.

In, and out, and ground himself.  There were sheets tucked around his legs, firm and twisted and just short of uncomfortably tight. A spring was poking into his thigh, and a thin layer of dust tickled his nose.

In, and out, and he remembered where he was.  The guest bedroom of the Hale house, where he had been staying ever since Derek brought him back here four – no, five? – no, four – days ago.

He was here with Scott.

He was safe.

When his heart no longer seemed ready to burst from his chest, Stiles moistened his lips and forced a humourless smile.  “I’m okay,” he croaked. 

Scott frowned, sweeping his eyes over Stiles’ sweat-soaked sheets and trembling hands before raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Stiles grumbled, louder, before emphasising the point by pushing himself into a sitting position and returning Scott’s frown with one of his own.

Scott’s lips tightened.  “No, you’re not.  Werewolf senses, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

The werewolf opened his mouth to press the issue, so Stiles cut him off with a quick gesture to the window, where the first tendrils of sunlight were breaking over the trees.  “Sorry for waking you up, though.  What time is it?”

Scott hesitated a moment longer, worried eyes lingering over Stiles’ not-quite-steady hands, before apparently deciding to let it slide.   “Breakfast time,” he said, instead. “I’m in the mood for baked beans.  You?”

Wait, what?

Stiles stared, surprise chasing the last traces of fear from his mind.  “Baked beans? How?”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been fed in the last few days, but their meals had been decidedly less commercial than baked beans.  Most of their sustenance came from a variety of vegetables the werewolves had cultivated somewhere in the Preserve, and one time he had been served fish that Derek had apparently caught (which was a thought Stiles was trying hard not to dwell on because the first time he pictured the man darting after fish with his bare hands he hadn’t been able to stop snickering, and Derek had glared at him with enough heat to melt steel).

“Do you think you can make it downstairs?” Scott asked, completely ignoring his question.  Stiles nodded, and Scott waved in acknowledgment before heading out.

Stiles made quick work of getting dressed – splashing some water on his face, doffing his shirt and throwing on some clean-ish clothes that Scott had rustled up for him – before limping a little uncertainly into the hallway.  His leg might be healing rapidly, according to Scott, but it still ached enough that he had spent the last few days confined either to bed or the living room couch.

_Dad would be shocked._ Historically, Stiles had always been a terrible patient, restlessly wandering the house whenever he was kept home from school, his mind refusing to slow down no matter how much his body begged.  But something about the triple blow of starvation and injury and infection had sapped even _his_ last drops of energy, and he just hadn’t had it in him to explore.

Now that he was on the mend though, he realised with a satisfied grin that his curiosity was starting to return.  He felt stronger, more _himself_ than he had since arriving in this godforsaken reality, and his grin only grew when he made it all the way to the ground floor with only two brief stops to rest.

The living room was to his right, but, energised by his own success, Stiles turned left instead.  He hobbled all the way to the kitchen entrance before pulling to an abrupt halt, jaw falling open at the sight.

The kitchen was different to his foggy memories from years ago - the benchtops cleaner, new doors on the cupboards, and a rough-looking wooden table in the centre of the room.  But that wasn’t what surprised him. 

No, what left him speechless was the pantry, door standing open to reveal shelf after shelf of tinned food.  Derek stood before it, adding a handful of new tins from a small pile on the table.  A few feet away, Scott was tightening the lid on a gallon container of water, and Stiles spotted a few similar containers stood in the alcove under the sink.

 “What the hell?” Stiles blurted out, shocked.  “Where did all this come from?”

Derek didn’t even look up, his tone distinctly unimpressed.  “Where do you think?  The government.”

Scott glanced over to see Stiles’ confusion.  “They send in supplies once a week.  Food, water - occasionally some clothing.  A drone drops it all in the town square, and then some of the older werewolves divide it all up for distribution.”

“Huh.”  The words nagged at him, and Stiles frowned as he turned them over.  When they finally clicked, his heart dropped into his stomach.  “Well, that seems like a terrible idea.”

Derek snorted – the most interest he had displayed in any conversation over the last three days, and bestowed Stiles with an appraising look.  “Maybe you’re smarter than you look,” he commented.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but otherwise let the insult slide.  “I’m pretty sure a fourth-grader could see the problem with that system,” he pointed out instead.  “Or anyone who has ever seen a zombie movie. Whenever one person is in charge of a limited resource, there’s risk of corruption.”

Derek ignored the remaining tins and rested his weight on the table, shaking his head as he met Stiles’ gaze.  “You’re not thinking big enough.”

Stiles frowned.  Not big enough?  What had he missed? 

He replayed the conversation in his head, talking to himself as he went.  “Okay, so there’s weekly drop offs at a single location and then…Scott said some people divided the supplies before they’re distributed, right? As in, more than one?” Scott made a noise of confirmation, and he followed the thought to its natural conclusion, stomach twisting as the realisation hit home.  “Which means there are multiple leaders, and multiple factions, all trying to survive in a world with limited supplies.”

Derek’s blue eyes were hard, boring into Stiles’ own.  “Which means?”

“Which means,” Stiles echoed, his voice suddenly hoarse, “you’ve got the perfect setup for conflict.  Factions turning on each other, trading loyalty for security, bending their own moral compasses to ensure they get their share.”

“Congratulations,” Derek deadpanned.  “It took you five minutes to predict what all the humans on the outside refuse to believe is happening.”  He whirled on the spot, slamming the pantry door hard enough that the contents rattled. 

Stiles’ breath caught, a spark of fear warming his heart.

But Derek regained control in seconds, his posture slumping as he palmed a can of food and stepped over to the gas stove.  “Can you cook?” he asked gruffly, glancing back to where Stiles was still rooted in the doorway.

Stiles opened his mouth to demand more information but closed it again when he saw the tightness around the older werewolf’s eyes.  He turned questioningly to Scott instead, who responded with a careful shake of his head.

Alright, then.  He knew when he was outnumbered.

Turning back to Derek, Stiles lifted his chin and scoffed.  “Dude, you have no idea.  I’ve been keeping my dad alive since I was ten – defeating the threat of heart disease one gourmet dish at a time. Cooking is my middle name.”   

He limped over to the stove, shoving the werewolf aside to twist on the gas with the flourish.  The stove crackled to life, and he smirked before fishing a pan out of the nearest cupboard and dumping it on top.  “Well, it’s not actually my middle name.  My middle name is a horrific clusterfuck of letters that I’m not really sure how to pronounce – no, seriously.  My dad says it slightly differently each time.  But if you’re asking if I can cook one measly can of beans…” 

Stiles spun on his heel to swipe the can from Derek’s lax grip, before turning back to the stove and peeling back the lid.  “Well, it’s going to be the best damn can of beans you’ve had this year.  Or, you know, this week. I mean, it’s beans.  It’ll be honest – it’s going to pretty much taste the same as every other can of beans.”

Derek looked like he thoroughly regretted asking the question.  But Scott chuckled, so Stiles chalked it up to a win and absorbed himself in the task at hand, filing the conversation away for a later date.

* * *

 

“It’s been nearly a week,” Malia said, her voice grim, “and we still have no clue where he is.”

She shifted impatiently in her seat, glaring at the platter of untouched snacks as though they had personally offended her. 

Her frustration was palpable, and Scott sighed internally.  It wasn’t that he didn’t understand – hell, there was a rapidly-growing part of him that yearned to be the one punching walls and growling at anyone who came close. Fear was burning holes in his stomach and making him tense enough that his muscles ached…but there was no point letting everyone else know that.  He was the leader, the _alpha,_ and everyone was relying on him to keep a level head no matter how much he wanted to rail at the universe for letting this happen.

His mug creaked warningly in his hand.  Carefully, Scott loosened his grip and placed it gently on the bench behind him, exhaling shakily through his nose.  Shit, he’d already broken two mugs this week.  He couldn’t afford to lose control like this.

Malia was still waiting for a response, so Scott fought to keep his voice even and replied.  “Well, maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong places.  We need to start thinking outside the box.”

“Where’s Stiles when you need him?” Liam muttered, before shrinking back at Scott’s flinch.  He opened his mouth to apologise, words tripping over themselves in his haste.  “Sorry, that came out wrong.  Stiles is just good at this stuff, you know? We could really use him right now.”

Scott forced a smile, hoping the younger boy realised that he wasn’t mad, but it was Lydia who spoke.  She had been taking Stiles’ absence harder than Scott had expected, and it showed – her face was drawn and pale beneath a thin layer of makeup, her normally impeccably styled hair hung loose past her shoulders.

“Scott’s right,” she said, softly.  She didn’t look up from her glass of water, still full to the brim, and her right hand mindlessly traced a pattern into the wood of the table.  “The usual tactics aren’t getting us anywhere.  I think it’s time we asked for help.”

She didn’t elaborate, leaving Liam to scrunch his brow in confusion.  “I thought Argent and Deaton are already helping?”

Lydia didn’t respond.  Malia caught Liam’s gaze and shrugged, equally perplexed, and Scott’s heart sunk as he realised what the banshee wasn’t saying. 

“We’re not doing that,” he said, firmly.

Lydia finally looked up, anger glinting in her eyes as she stared at him.  “We don’t have a choice.”

Scott pressed his lips together, his jaw clenching tightly, and shook his head.  “It’s not a good idea. Nothing good has ever come from asking him for help.”

“That’s not true,” Lydia argued.  Her hand stopped its endless pattern on the table to gesture in the direction of the living room.  “He helped with Void.”

Scott scoffed, harsh and heavy with sarcasm, barely noticing Liam’s wide-eyed surprise at the tone.  “He did the absolute minimum he could get away with.  ‘Improvise.’  Remember that?”

Lydia stood abruptly, her chair screeching as it slid back across the floor.  She planted her hands firmly on the table and pinned Scott with something close to a glare.  “I _know_ it’s risky.  Do you have any better ideas?”

Well.  She had him there.

Still, his stomach turned uneasily at the mere thought of her suggestion.  It was a can of worms that he really didn’t want to open.  

“Guys!” 

Malia’s punctuated her shout by a loud _crack,_ slamming her open palm onto the table.  Scott jumped, surprised, and turned to see her eyes flickering between brown and blue as she fixed both him and Lydia with a penetrating gaze. 

“Stiles is _missing_ ,” she continued, coldly.  “So, if you have any new ideas, I suggest you shut up, stop arguing and tell us what the hell you have in mind.”

“Uh, if they shut up, how are they supposed to…?”  Liam trailed off as her glare turned in his direction, raising his hands in surrender.  “Alright, jeez.”

And, well.  Scott exchanged a meaningful glance with Lydia, before scrubbing a hand over his face and dropping into a nearby chair.  Across the table, Lydia lowered herself back into her seat, lips pressed into a firm line and eyes shining with a suspicious wetness.

“Alright,” Scott began, glancing around the group.  “We were talking about Peter Hale.”

Liam’s eyes widened.  “Peter Hale?” he echoed, taken aback.  “Uh, didn’t he try to kill you last time?  And, you know, me?  All of us?”

“Yeah,” Scott sighed.  He felt like he had aged five years in five minutes, exhaustion weighing down his limbs and his heart.  “But he’s helped us in the past. Sort of.  And he does know all sorts of obscure supernatural lore.”

“Great, let’s go.”  Malia’s voice was decisive, unfazed as ever.  “Where do we find him?”

“Locked up in the secure ward in Eichen, last I heard,” Scott explained, glancing at Lydia.  “But even if we could get in there, he’s not going to help us without demanding something in return.”

“So, then we give him what he wants,” Malia huffed, throwing her hands up in frustration. “If he leads us to Stiles, does it really matter?”

Scott felt his resolve slipping.  Malia had clearly made up her mind, Lydia too.  Even Liam had set his jaw determinedly, eyes narrowed as he started working through a plan.

They were doing this, with or without him. 

And as much as Scott knew the risks, the part of him that desperately wanted to tear the Preserve apart until it found his missing pack member and best friend and brother couldn’t bring itself to care.

“Not really,” he replied, finally, not able to keep the pain from his voice.   “I need him back as much as you do. Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys.  My ‘writing time’ currently is limited to my toddler’s nap-times on non-work days when the housework is more or less under control.  So…it’s sporadic.  But I promise I will continue to post as much and as quickly as I can.
> 
> Also: one of my biggest frustrations with 6A was how they downplayed the importance of Scott and Stiles’ friendship. Stydia’s wonderful, but Sciles have such a great bond that imo was swept under the rug in order to highlight the Stydia romance.  So you can expect this fic to be filled with plenty of Sciles bromance alongside Stydia, because there’s no need to sacrifice one for the other.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading, will update soon! xx


	7. Eichen House

“This plan is stupid." 

Scott just barely refrained from pinching his nose.  “It’s your plan!”

“I’m aware,” Lydia deadpanned.  “I’m just saying, it’s stupid.  Peter’s not going to listen to me – we’d be better off sending in Malia.  Or you.”

“Lydia, if you don’t want to do this…”

The offer faded on his lips as the banshee shook her head.  “No, it’s okay,” she assured him.  “We have to do this.  It’s just…a lot of bad memories, you know?”

“I know.”  And he did.  Peter had _used_ Lydia for months.  Invading her dreams, controlling her movements… and the worst part was that Scott didn’t even have to ask what that was like.  He still sometimes woke in a cold sweat at the memory of Peter’s voice filling his head, overwhelming his instincts, seizing control over Scott before they’d even met.

So, the idea of confronting Peter was more than enough to make Scott tetchy, but of course it had to involve freaking Eichen House as well.  Scott hated the place ever since he watched his best friend walk inside in a desperate attempt to protect everyone from himself.  He never had to see what Lydia went through in there, and he never asked – seeing Stiles carry her out of the labyrinth, pale and bloody with a torn expression that he hadn’t seen since Allison…well.  The words died on his tongue every time he tried to bring it up.  She confided in Stiles, though, clinging to him for comfort as she readjusted to the outside world, so he told himself that there was no reason to make her relive it just for him.

Looking at her now, he wondered if that was a mistake.  Her expression was fierce, but her arms trembled at her side and the acrid scent of fear filled his nose, and Scott had absolutely no idea what to say. 

 _Maybe we should just call this off_ , he thought for the millionth time.

“I’ll be right outside the barrier,” he promised instead, hoping the words were more reassuring than they sounded.  “And if you need to come back out – just _come_ , okay.  We’ll figure something else out.”

The banshee nodded, paler than ever in the fluorescent street light, and Scott anxiously chewed his lip.

God, he hated this plan.

He was about to say as much – as though maybe this time an alternative would appear magically out of thin air – when the rumble of a car engine interrupted the silence and he turned to see headlights approaching from his left.

Frowning, he stepped closer into the shadows, pulling Lydia with him, and squinted at the vehicle as it approached.  He couldn’t see past the glare, but it didn’t matter since the car parked mere feet away, the headlights fading as the engine cut out.

A door cracked open, and Scott’s jaw dropped.  “Sheriff?  What are you doing here?”

The Sheriff’s face was thinner than he remembered, but his stride was long and his hand steady as he clapped Scott on the shoulder.

“Malia paid me a visit this afternoon.  She filled me in on the plan.”

Of course she did.

Scott squared his shoulders, argument ready on his tongue even as he craned his head to look the taller man in the eyes.

Lydia cut him off before he got the chance.  “It’s our best chance at finding Stiles,” she implored.  “And Malia and Liam are already inside.  Please don’t try to stop us.”

Noah’s lips tightened with worry.  “You’re the only one who can physically get to Peter, right?  Malia said something about a mountain ash barrier.”

“That’s right,” Scott confirmed warily.  “I’ll get Lydia as far in as I can, but she’ll have to do the last bit by herself.”

Noah closed his eyes briefly, frustration etched across his face.  “You kids, I swear to god,” he muttered.

When he opened his eyes again, he levelled Scott with a disapproving look.  “I know you’ve been through a lot,” he said, flatly, “but you have adults on your side now – so _use_ us.  I’ll go with Lydia.  Once we’re in, you just focus on getting Malia and Liam out of this hellhole.  I don’t trust this place, _especially_ with you kids, and I don’t want you in there any longer than necessary.”

“Yessir.”  Scott winced, guiltily.  If he was honest, it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask the Sheriff for help.  Which, now that he thought about it, was an old habit that should have died the minute Stiles landed himself in trouble.  The Sheriff had more right to be there than anyone.

“Thank you,” Lydia breathed, her shoulders finally releasing from where they were bunched around her ears.  “That really helps.”

Noah nodded once, his fingers brushing over his holster in a well-practiced movement.  “That’s what I’m here for.”

Then Scott’s phone buzzed, and all his apprehension flooded back in an instant.  He glanced at Lydia, who met his gaze with wide eyes, then back at the Sheriff.

“That’s the signal?”

Scott nodded, voiceless, and Noah shifted his weight, face instantly set with determination.  “Lead the way.”

Scott didn’t waste any time.  He jumped, clearing the fence in a single leap, then turned back to the gate.  It took only a fraction of his strength to snap the padlock clean in two.

“Hurry,” he whispered, opening the gate a few feet while the others slipped through.  Then he resumed his place in front, wending a path through the immaculately-maintained garden.  He stuck to the shadows, relying on the glow of the institution’s windows to keep an eye out for security, but he needn’t have worried.  The grounds were deserted.

The back of the premises was separated from the front by an eight-foot tall concrete wall lit by a floodlight.  There was a security camera screwed into the nearby brick wall, lens fixed on the barrier, and Scott instantly froze, melting back into the darkness.

The Sheriff followed his eyeline and immediately recognised the problem.  He leaned forward to whisper in Scott’s ear. “There’s just the one. If you hug the edge of the building, you can reach it without being seen.  Do you have anything to cover the lens?”

Scott brought out a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket – scrounged from the junk drawer in his garage – and the Sheriff nodded approvingly.

He moved as swiftly as he dared, careful to stay out of the light, and within seconds found himself positioned directly below the camera.  He tore off a strip of tape, then held his breath as he darted upward, pressing it over the lens in one clean movement.

For a second, he held his breath, waiting for an alarm to sound.

But it didn’t, so after a beat he gestured for the other two to join him.  “Won’t be long before they notice that,” he muttered.  “We should move quickly.”

Prior to the bite, the wall might have posed a problem for Scott, but that was no longer the case.  He leaped upward easily to land light-footed on top.  Then he stretched a hand down toward the Sheriff, who scrambled up the wall in seconds, and then it was simple enough for the two of them to lift Lydia up before all three dropped silently to the ground on the other side.

The backyard was overgrown, in stark contrast to the front – clearly, it was not meant for visitors.  Scott could just make out a wide driveway leading to a loading dock with an industrial-size roller door set into the back wall of the building.  And there, right next to it and so much smaller that Scott nearly missed it: the service door that Malia had described.

He crept over to it and rested one hand on the handle.  With his other, he drew out his phone and unlocked it, sending a one-word message to Liam.

 _Now_.

Then he waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Sev---

Seven seconds, then the building fell into complete darkness, every light extinguishing in unison, the faint hum of the air conditioning units fading into nothing.

Scott tore the handle off the door and shoved it open, subtlety be damned.  He threw himself into the building, setting a fast pace and trusting the others to follow.  Right, left, right again.  There was no hesitation to his movements, the corridors more familiar than he cared them to be, Malia’s map ingrained into his mind. 

They had entered through the deserted laundry, so it was a full nine corridors before they found the first guards.

There were three of them, clustered together at the end of a hallway, electrified batons hanging from loose grips and tasers from their belts.

Scott gestured for the others to stay put, then whipped around the corner and roared.

The guards’ heads jerked upward in unison, their eyes widening in shock as Scott hurtled down the corridor.  One of them got hold of his taser and fired off a shot, but not fast enough – Scott dodged, leaping onto the wall with a powerful jump, then used his momentum to propel himself directly at the man, crashing bodily into him and knocking both of them to the floor.

A baton swung down from above, and Scott rolled to the side just in time to see it slam into the floor beside his head.  The owner staggered and Scott took advantage of the moment, grabbing his shoulders and flinging him overhead so he landed with a thump somewhere out of sight.

Then something poked into Scott’s side, and his world exploded.

Shocks of electricity coursed from the site, setting his nerves on fire.  His muscles screamed, spasming painfully as his limbs contorted into unnatural positions, and his jaw locked shut as his head jerked backwards against his will, slamming painfully onto the concrete floor.

Vaguely, he realised that someone was screaming, but he could barely hear it over the sound of his blood rushing through his ears.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it was gone.

A rush of footsteps, and someone was leaning over him, shaking his shoulders.  “Scott.  Scott, son, you have to breathe.”

Breathe.  Oh, right.  Why wasn’t he doing that?”

“Come on, buddy, focus on my voice.  In and out.”

He made it sound so easy.  But, sure, he could try.

He focussed on his ribcage, forcing it to expand.

“That’s it.  Now relax.”

He pursed his lips and blew the air out through his cheeks, then started over.  In, out. In, out.

The world re-materialised around him, the Sheriff’s worried face coming into view. 

“Are you back with us now?” the older man asked, a current of fear threading his words.

“Ugh…yeah.”  Scott grunted as he pushed himself into a sitting position.  He glanced around him – Lydia was hovering anxiously behind the Sheriff, and on his other side were three unmoving guards, crumpled against the door.

Scott blinked, then glanced gratefully at the banshee.  “Thanks.”

She pressed her lips together in an imitation of a smile. 

Noah helped Scott to his feet, frowning when the werewolf swayed for a moment before steadying.  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.  “It’s not like you to be taken down like that.”

Scott winced.  There was no malice behind the words, but they still stung – mostly because they were true.  Scott knew he wasn’t firing at full cylinders lately.

But they didn’t have time for this.

“I’m fine.”  Scott stepped closer to the door and cocked his head.  There were voices drifting from just beyond the wood - four guards, and maybe a patient.   “Wait here.”

This time, the guards went down easily.  Scott snarled and clawed, using the men’s momentum against themselves, twisting and leaping and throwing himself into the fight so thoroughly that he finally managing to silence the voice that had been screaming at him for days: _Find Stiles Find Stiles Find Stiles Find Stiles._

* * *

Lydia hated everything about these hallways.

She hated the smooth floors.  The bland green paint on the walls.  The absolute lack of signage that turned the building into a veritable labyrinth.  The dreary overhead lighting that was only necessary because they apparently didn’t have _windows_ because this place was a fucking _prison..._  

No. No time for that - she could have her breakdown later.  Someone needed to hold it together, and apparently it wasn’t going to be Scott.

Something had changed with him.  He had been strained ever since Stiles disappeared – even Liam had noticed, judging by the number of times she had caught him staring at the alpha’s back with wide-eyed bafflement – but this was different.  He was quiet, completely focussed, taking down every threat with a deadly grace that sent shivers down her spine.

She never thought she’d see the day that she feared Scott McCall.

But, well.  Here they were.

Still, Scott’s newfound aggression was remarkably efficient, so it was less than ten minutes after entering the building that they turned a corner and she found herself face-to-face with the gate that marked the mountain ash barrier.

Scott put one clawed hand on her shoulder, crimson eyes boring into her own.  “Ready?”

Lydia glanced from him to the Sheriff, who gave her a reassuring nod, and smiled weakly.  “Sure.”

Scott squeezed her shoulder once, then released her and stepped back.  “I’ll be here.”

Right.  All the way back here.

 _Come on, Lydia.  Stop stalling._   Gathering her courage, Lydia raised her head and nodded, then reached out and swiped her stolen keycard over the lock.  “See you in a bit,” she promised, before pushing open the gate and slipping inside, the Sheriff at her shoulder.

They turned one corner, and another, and then there was only one door left.

The Sheriff pulled out his gun and blasted the lock, and Lydia strode in with her head held high.

* * *

 

He was watching her.

His blue gaze slowly worked its way down her body, sliding over her hair and down her neck, over her chest and down her legs, at which point he methodically licked his lips and leered.

She shivered, suddenly feeling naked and grimy under his stare.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise,” Peter drawled.  He stepped forward so he was standing just behind the glass door of his cell.  “I wish you’d told me you were coming, I would have prepared a welcome.”

There were heavy footsteps as the Sheriff entered the room, and Lydia’s chest eased as he took his spot at her shoulder. 

Peter seemed less happy.  He snarled, raising an arm over his head to press a fist to the glass.  “Oh.  I didn’t realise you brought a bodyguard.”

“She didn’t.”  The disgust in the Sheriff’s voice was palpable, and Lydia glanced up to find his lip curling in an uncharacteristic sneer.  “Lydia’s more than capable of taking care of herself.  I just wanted to be here for this.”

“And what is ‘this’, exactly?”

And – well. That was her cue if she ever heard one.

Lydia stepped forward, hesitant at first, then more confidently, until she was a mere foot away from the man she wished she could leave behind once and for good.  “What do you know about fairies?”

There was a strange thrill in being able to take Peter by surprise.  She couldn’t help but smirk as his jaw dropped inelegantly at the words.

It only lasted for a second, before he smoothed his expression back to his usual omniscient façade.

“Why do I get the feeling there’s a story behind this?” Peter remarked.  “It’s awfully dull around here, you know. And I have nowhere to be.”

She nearly ground her teeth in frustration, catching herself at the last second.  “I’m not here to play games,” Lydia bit out instead, narrowing her eyes.  “Can you help or not?”

Peter’s eyes widened, curious.  “Well, this is new.  You lot are normally all about the talking - the incessant plans, the endless debates about grey morality, the constant teetering back and forth to avoid ever making a decision.  What changed?”

Lydia stared silently in reply, and Peter’s gaze shifted to the Sheriff. 

Something must have clicked.  The werewolf whipped his head back to her, delight lighting his eyes, a lopsided grin twisting his features.  “Tell me: where is Stiles, anyway?”

Lydia’s breath caught, a sharp pain stabbing her heart. 

Peter laughed.  “Oh, what a _terrible_ turn of events,” he mocked.  “The boy’s wounded then? Missing?  Dead?  Tell me when I’ve hit gold." 

“Shut up.”  The Sheriff’s voice was hoarse with fury.  He pushed himself forward, arms stiff by his side and glared holes through the glass.  “Here’s how this is going down.  We’re going to tell you what happened, then _you’re_ going to tell us how to find him.   If you’re helpful, maybe I’ll make life a little cosier for you in here.  If not, Argent has a few suggestions for your new roommate.”

“I have a better idea,” Peter tutted, unperturbed.  He drew himself upright, stepping sideways so that he was looking the Sheriff directly in the eye.  “You get me out of here, and I’ll help you.  Take it or leave it.”

“Leave it,” Lydia replied instantly.  “You don’t even know if you _can_ help yet.”

“True.  But that’s a chance you’re going to have to take, isn’t it?  After all, you must be desperate to come to me, of all people.”

The air drained from her lungs in a heartbeat – because, that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?  They _were_ desperate.  Peter held all the cards, and he knew it.

She turned a pleading gaze to the Sheriff, who was already shaking his head.  “Lydia, we can’t –“

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a blaring alarm.  Overhead, the fluorescent lights suddenly blazed to life.

The power was back on.

“No, no, no!” Lydia cried out, mostly to herself.  “It’s too soon!”

Her gaze whipped from the Sheriff to Peter to the lights and back to the Sheriff, who was sickly pale beneath the lighting.

His hand was shaky as he reached out to grasp her shoulder. “We’ll figure something else out,” he muttered, although what they could figure out Lydia had no idea.  They had been _trying_ to figure something else out.  They hadn’t had any luck.

She stumbled backward under his grip, barely able to think over the shriek of the alarm and the sound of her heart shattering in her chest.

Then she heard it.

“Lydia.”  It was Peter’s voice, only somehow a thousand times less oily.  “Please.”

She halted.  Turned, and found a man who had aged ten years in five seconds.  His face was lined, haggard, his eyes dull and broken.   His smarmy expression was gone, replaced a by a look of pure desperation.  The fist that had been pressed against the wall was splayed out, his fingers trembling against the glass.

“Please,” he begged again.  “I’ll help, I promise.”

The Sheriff tightened his grip, warningly.  “We need to go.”

Lydia bit her lip.  She glanced once at the Sheriff, then back at Peter.

Then she shrugged out of his grasp and took a step back toward the cell.  The werewolf stood back too, pressing himself against the far corner and lifting his hands to his ears, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes.

God, she hoped she wasn’t making a mistake.

Lydia drew in a deep breath, and screamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is super-fun to write. That is all.


	8. Beneath the Surface

 

The sun struggled to shine through thick grey clouds, and Stiles took a moment to frown at the sky.  It would be just his luck.  The weather seemed likely to hold when he agreed to this little adventure, but the faint tang of rain was proving him wrong.

“…I didn’t know there was this much green in the whole galaxy.”

Stiles blinked, then stared at Scott as though he’d grown a second head.  “Did you just quote Star Wars?”

The werewolf grinned.  “With the way you’ve been staring at the trees for the last five minutes, I couldn’t resist.  Planning to help out any time soon?”

“No,” Stiles said automatically, too busy trying to restart his poor heart.  It must have stuttered to a halt out of pure shock.  “I can’t believe you’ve seen Star Wars.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Not you, apparently.  Ugh.”  Stiles scrunched his nose, irritated, and kicked his shoe against the ground.  “I swear to god, if he’s been avoiding them just to annoy me…”

Realisation cause Scott to tilt his head, curious.  “Would he really do that?”

“I don’t know.  Probably.”  Stiles’ voice was dangerously close to a whine, so he decided to change the topic before he turned into an actual toddler and jabbed a finger toward the gathering clouds instead. “Think we should wrap this up?”

Scott chewed his cheek, but ultimately shook his head.  “Soon, but I think we can fill another bag or two before it hits.  If you help, that is,” he added, with a pointed glance at Stiles’ half-empty sack of potatoes.

Stiles groaned, nudging it drearily with his toe.  “I don’t think even think I’ll be able to carry this as it is.”

Scott grinned and pointed to a much-smaller bag of vegetables nearby.  “That’s why I made you a kiddie bag.”

Stiles’ gasped in mock-offense, but Scott had already returned to his digging so he reluctantly dropped to a crouch nearby.

It had been over an hour since they arrived at the planted-out field, Scott working his way through the crops with practiced ease, and Stiles still had to pinch himself to make sure it was real. 

Because, _seriously._   Scott had never been on a farm in his life.  Once, in elementary school, the class had gone to a nearby station to learn more about agriculture.  But Scott had missed out, cooped up in hospital after a particularly bad asthma attack.  Stiles had visited him, afterward, and spent half an hour talking his ear off about the animals before realising that Scott’s grin was becoming increasingly strained, at which point he snapped his mouth shut and pulled out a pack of cards instead.

Stiles would never forget that day.  It was his first experience with hiding bruises, after all – without Scott there to rein him in, he had run his mouth a little too far and the farm offered ample places for bullies to hide.

The mere mention of farming had left a bad taste in Stiles’ mouth ever since, so he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Scott had never shown any interest, and yet here they were.  Standing in a field of surprisingly healthy crops, harvesting vegetables, and watching the clouds roll in.

…it was so fucking domestic, it made Stiles want to scream.

Because three weeks ago, he had ventured into the wasteland of his hometown, saw twitching curtains and frightened movements, saw bloodstains on driveways and cracked windows and sunlight glinting off the barrels of rifles.

Three weeks ago, he had learned about the massacres, the power struggles, the corruption.

And in the last three weeks, he had seen Scott and Derek do absolutely jack squat about it.

They rarely ventured into town, preferring to keep to the Hale house and the surrounding Preserve.  On the odd occasion that Derek did leave, Scott always stayed behind with Stiles, whiling away the time with funny anecdotes and the occasional board game, until Derek returned with an armful of supplies. 

He was never gone for more than an hour, and he never spoke about what he saw.

The whole thing was wrong, and Stiles had spent the last few days trying to figure out the right way to broach the topic.  Several times, he had opened his mouth only to catch Derek glowering at him from from across the room, and each time he had closed it again with a snap and turned away from the alpha’s heavy gaze.

But Derek wasn’t here now.

“Scott?” Stiles ventured, palming a leaf of a nearby plant for no reason other than to give his hand something to do.  “You know season two of _The Walking Dead_ sucked, right?”

Scott peered up at him, brow furrowed in confusion.  “The zombie show?  I never watched it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Stiles muttered.  He dragged his heel across the ground, leaving a shallow indentation in the soil.  “Why don’t you ever go into town?”

The werewolf’s lips tightened.  Carefully, he brushed his hands against his pants, watching the soil drop back to the earth as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “You were there,” he said, warily.  “It’s a mess.  It’s safer here.”

“Yeah, but –“ Stiles cut himself off, gesturing vaguely toward the town in a sweeping movement.  “That’s where everyone is.  The people who shot me, sure – don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting you hang out with them – personally, I’d prefer if they stayed a good mile and half away from me at all times –”

Stiles bit off his runaway sentence, annoyed, and did a quick four-three-two-one-regroup in his mind.

“My point,” Stiles started over, slower this time, “is that if what you told me is true, then there are all kinds of people in town.  People who need help.”

Scott’s mouth twitched, guiltily, and Stiles leaned forward to press the point. 

“If you were my Scott, you’d be right in the thick of things, trying to make this whole shitty situation a little bit better.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  Scott’s expression immediately slammed shut, his jaw clenching in a way that reminded Stiles of Derek, and his eyes flashed yellow.  “Sorry to disappoint.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“Are you too scared to go in?”

“No.”

 “Did something happen to you?”

“No.”

“Is it Derek?  Is he keeping you out here?” 

A growl, and another warning flash of yellow eyes.

Stiles sighed.  He was disappointed but, if he was honest, not entirely surprised.  “Alright buddy, I hear you,” he muttered.

Clambering to his feet, Stiles helped Scott follow suit, leaving his hand on the werewolf slightly longer than necessary. “Thanks for everything, Scott. Really.  But, I can’t just sit here and pretend nothing’s wrong…once this rain passes, I’m heading back into town.”

Scott shrugged him off, watching Stiles with a hard stare that didn’t suit his face.  “No.”                   

Stiles cocked his head, a little amused.  “I wasn’t asking permission, dude.”

Scott didn’t so much as blink.  “I didn’t think you were.”

His amusement faded and, for the first time, Stiles felt a sliver of fear.  Scott’s tone…it was something he had heard only once before, when he explained the truth to Gerard while the old man leaked black blood all over the ground.  It had turned his stomach even then; the cold, hard tone more suited to himself – or Derek, or _Peter_ – than his friend.

He never thought he’d hear it directed at him.

“I don’t want to do this,” Scott warned, tonelessly.  “But we brought you into our home.  You know where we keep our supplies, and where we grow our food.  You know our routines.  You know a lot of information that would be valuable to people who might want to hurt us.”

Stiles was starting to realise where this was going.  His stomach sank, and a chill ran up his spine.

“Until we know for sure that we can trust you…we can’t afford to let you leave.”

And there it was.  Stiles baulked, and in his horror all he could see were the minute differences that set this Scott apart from his best friend, so glaring and overwhelming that he was almost unrecognisable.

Then he curled his lip, his horror rapidly twisting to anger.  “That’s some passive-aggressive bullshit you’re pulling there, Scotty,” he bit out, glaring daggers.  “Why not just say it?  I’m your prisoner.”

For a brief second, the other boy faltered, his jaw working uncertainly.

But Stiles was too far gone, fire burning his chest as thunder rumbled in the distance.  He shook his head and turned away from his friend with a sneer.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.  Scott McCall, always the idealist, never wanting to get his hands dirty.  I bet you were just banking on me never asking to leave – that way you wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth.”

“That’s not fair.”  Scott’s voice was rough, shakier than he probably intended.  “I thought you said the other me was your best friend?  Your brother?”

Stiles opened his mouth to bark a retort but pulled up short when he suddenly noticed Scott’s posture.  The werewolf’s shoulders were slumped, his eyes downcast, arms hanging listlessly by his side.  There was a defeated expression on his face that spoke volumes, and in spite of everything Stiles felt his anger melt away.

Damn it.  He’d never be able to turn his back on Scott.   Not even this version.

Hesitantly, Stiles took a step closer and reached out to squeeze his shoulder.  “You are, yeah,” he said quietly.  “But that doesn’t mean we always agree.  Scott…Scott likes to see the best in people.  He draws a line in the sand, morally speaking, and no matter how many people end up in the crossfire he refuses to cross it. 

“Me, on the other hand,” he continued, speaking a little faster now, “I’m more of a realist.  When it comes to solving problems, I’m good at finding the most efficient solution.  The problem is, the fastest routes aren’t always necessarily the best.  They tend to come with repercussions.”

Scott’s brow was still scrunched, but at that comment he tilted his head curiously.  

Stiles paused, trying to find the right words.  “Often, the simplest solution is not necessarily the best,” he finally said.  “If a monster is killing people, you kill the monster and the problem goes away.   If you’re unsure about someone, you keep them at arm’s length.  And if you’re worried about someone turning on you – well, you do whatever you can to make sure they don’t get the opportunity.”

“Stiles, I –” Scott broke off.  “You don’t understand.”

“No, I get it.” And he did.  Stiles quirked his lips in a wan smile.  “Forcing me to stay is the _logical_ solution.  It’s what I would suggest - and I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it’s what Derek suggested.” Scott’s eyes dipped once.  It was confirmation enough.

Stiles sighed, running a hand through his hair, hating the feeling of being so exposed but knowing the words needed to be said. “The thing is, I would make a terrible alpha.  You can’t base these sort of decisions on logic alone.  That’s why Scott and I make a good team – I make the suggestions, and he makes sure I don’t do anything I’ll regret.”

He gestured in the direction of the Hale house.  “That guy back there? He needs you to keep him in check, but for whatever reason that’s not happening.  I don’t know why you’re lying down and accepting his plans, but you’ve got to stop.  This isn’t you, Scott.”

“You don’t even know me.”  Scott’s voice was barely above a whisper, a last half-hearted attempt to keep his reality stitched together.

Stiles snorted.  “You’re not so different.”                                    

Scott’s eyes met his, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile.  Stiles felt himself smile in return, and for a moment they basked in a moment of mutual understanding.

Then a roar blasted through the air.

It shattered the silence, sending birds fleeing from the trees, and Stiles’ heart froze over even as he whipped his neck toward the source.

Derek.


	9. Crossroads

 

The boys had been gone for a little over an hour. 

Ugh.  _The boys_.  At what point did Derek turn into a forty-year old mother?

He had been wrestling the back door out of its frame, intent on replacing its rusty hinges, when Scott had approached him to say something about showing Stiles the crops.  He grunted his assent without really thinking, only to regret it a moment later when a familiar itch appeared between his shoulder blades, making him scrunch his eyes shut in annoyance.

“They’ll be fine,” he muttered.  It did nothing to abate the itch – if anything, it grew stronger – and he groaned, falling forward to rest his forehead against the door.               

His mother never mentioned this.  She never warned him about the constant fear that came with being an alpha, the worry that someone would harm his pack, the _need_ to keep them safe that translated to a whole lot of barking orders, restless patrols and sleepless nights.

Suddenly, her fury whenever she caught him sneaking out of the house made a whole lot more sense.

It was bad enough when it was just Scott.  The boy was too kind-hearted for his own good but at least he could follow orders and knew enough to stay close.  And he was strong, stronger than he realised – if shit truly hit the fan, Scott would be able to defend himself.

But now there was Stiles.  Derek wasn’t sure when Stiles transitioned from an intruder to Pack, but in just a few short weeks the boy had gotten under his skin.  Maybe it was his familiarity – Stiles seemed to forget, sometimes, that they’d only just met, and he acted as though he’d known him for years.  Or maybe it was his scent –  it was faded now, but at first Derek could detect faint traces of Scott mixed with other werecreatures that just screamed _Pack_ and supported his crazy story more than any explanation the boy could offer.

Or maybe it was just the way that Scott had taken to him, instantly comfortable in the other boy’s presence, that had crumbled Derek’s walls faster than he would have thought possible.

Whatever the cause, the boy had wormed his way into Derek’s life enough to trigger his alpha instincts, and honestly?  It was pissing Derek off like he wouldn’t believe.

Because Stiles would eventually ask to leave, and then what?  Just having the boy out of his sight already triggered that infernal protective itch.  Letting him head into town, into _danger?_   He might as well kiss any chance of rest goodbye.

Derek growled, resting back on his haunches and glaring at the door.  There was no point worrying about that now.  He suspected his wolf instincts would override any rational decision he came to, anyway.

He picked up his tools, determinedly pushing the matter out of his mind, and turned his attention to replacing the hinges.

And for an hour, everything was fine.

And then _he_ appeared.

“Hello, nephew.”

Derek shifted as he spun, taking up a defensive stance and baring his teeth in a snarl.

Peter smirked, amused.  “Now, now.  That’s no way to greet family.”

“We stopped being family somewhere between your killing spree and me slashing your throat.”

Peter’s chuckled, but didn’t argue the point.  Instead, he strolled casually through the living room, closing the distance between them and making a point of inspecting the boarded-up windows, the stolen couch, the stubborn scorch marks on the inner walls.   “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Why are you here?” Derek demanded, roughly.

The older man sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward.  “See, this is your problem.  Always straight to the growling and the threatening.  Keep that up and you’ll end up…well, like this.”  His broad gesture encompassed the empty rooms, the damaged structures, the worn furniture.

Derek didn’t reply, his glare conveying all that needed to be said.

Peter sighed once more, but finally seemed to get the message.  “You know why I’m here.”

“Then you know what my answer is,” Derek bit out.  “We’re not joining you.”

“I know stubbornness is one of your defining traits but, nephew, you’re an idiot.  I’m offering you a chance many would kill for, in the interests of family.”

Derek snorted.  “In the interests of Scott, you mean.  You’re still bitter you can’t control him anymore." 

“You really think I would expend this much effort for one little beta?  Please.”

Derek narrowed his eyes.  He knew better than to trust Peter, but something beneath his oily tone rang true.  For the first time since the older man had arrived, he allowed himself to relax slightly, dropping the shift and straightening his stance.

On closer inspection, Peter looked _exhausted._   There were dark circles under his eyes that didn’t suit his confident expression, sharp cheekbones standing proud above hollow cheeks, and crow’s feet that never used to exist.

Despite himself, Derek’s forehead creased in concern. “Are you okay?”

Peter didn’t so much as twitch.  “Just dandy.  You’re the one who looks like you’re about to pass out.  When was the last time you slept?”

Right.  Now he remembered why he didn’t bother.

He opened his mouth to make a snarky reply, but Peter beat him to it.  “Look, Derek, as fun as this is, I actually did come here for a reason.  You need to start paying attention to what’s going on at your front door.”

“I do,” Derek said before he could stop himself.  “Lots of dirt and insects, mostly.  Occasionally a few birds.”

“Shut up,” Peter snapped, and Derek complied, more out of surprise than obedience.  Peter rarely snapped – he seemed to take a particular joy in acting perpetually unruffled.

“That’s better,” the older man continued, stepping forward until he was nose-to-nose Derek.  “You know that people are angry.  You know there’s no outlet for that anger while they’re all trapped in this godforsaken cage.  Are you a complete idiot, or do you know where I’m going with this?”

“I know,” Derek replied.  “That’s why we’re staying out here.  Where it’s safe.”

“ _Nowhere is safe_!” Peter hissed.  “Why can’t you get that through your thick head?”

Derek’s eyes burned as the shift crept over him, but Peter beat him to it.  The older man surged forward in a heartbeat, shoving Derek against the wall the full force of his body as his claws dug into Derek’s throat.

Derek roared, pain lancing through him.  He thrashed wildly, reaching up to grasp Peter’s arm with both of his hands, but before he could yank it away Peter flexed his fingers.  His claws sunk deeper in Derek’s skin, causing blood to well up and trickle down his neck.

“Stop moving, or I _will_ tear out your throat,” Peter snarled, an inch away from Derek’s ear. 

Derek froze.

“That’s better.  Now listen.  Things are going to come a head soon.  I’m offering you protection when the chaos hits, because you’re family and that means something, whether you want it to or not.”

Derek had a few thoughts on that, but for once he held his tongue, locking his eyes onto Peter’s unusually desperate blue gaze.

The silence was broken by a rush of footsteps, barely a second before the door burst inward and Scott crashed into the room.  He skidded to a stop, golden eyes wide, and snarled warningly as he took in the scene.

Peter didn’t even flinch.  He fixed his gaze on Derek for one more long moment, before stepping back and raising his hands in mock surrender. 

“Stand down, boy,” he sneered, lazily.

Scott bared his teeth, but his eyes drifted questioningly toward Derek.

“I’m okay,” Derek murmured, rubbing his bruised throat.  The cuts were already starting to heal, the bleeding slowing to a trickle.  If Peter had been trying to hurt him it might have been a different story, but as it was his injuries would be gone by tomorrow.

Scott didn’t look convinced, and Derek supposed he had a point.  He took a few steps closer to his beta, standing next to him to glare at Peter in solidarity. 

“You’ve said your piece,” Derek said clearly.  “Now go.”

Peter rolled his eyes in long-suffering annoyance.  “You know where to find me when you come to your senses,” he shot back, then he turned and threaded his way through the house, heading out the way he had come in.

Derek watched him go, not moving a muscle until his footsteps faded completely into the distance.

Then he exhaled heavily, and turned to meet Scott’s confused gaze.  “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?”  Scott echoed, incredulous.  “He nearly ripped your throat out.”

“But he didn’t.”  

Derek’s words didn’t seem to comfort the beta, Scott’s cheeks unusually pale even as he let his werewolf features recede.

Sighing, Derek allowed his own shift to fade and rested a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder.  “Seriously, I’m fine.”

Scott’s gaze drifted from Derek to his hand and back again, before he finally accepted the words.  He nodded, then jerked his thumb in the direction that Peter had left.  “What was all that about?” he asked.

“Recruitment speech.  He’s looking for soldiers and thought he’d try here.”  The lie slipped smoothly off Derek’s tongue, and for a second he wondered if he should just tell Scott the truth.

But no. 

Scott had friends in town – he had lived there his whole life, after all - and despite Scott’s best efforts to be stealthy he knew that the beta occasionally slipped out to visit them.  If he had any reason to think that they were in danger, he would be torn between his loyalty to Derek and his need to protect them, and as much as Derek didn’t think he would just go running off…

…well.  It just wasn’t worth the risk, was it?  The safest thing for Scott was to stay put, and, anyway, it’s not like Peter could be trusted.   There was every chance his warning was part of some larger ruse, but Scott wouldn’t necessarily be willing to accept that.

Derek couldn’t risk that.

Scott scoffed.  “I guess he’ll know better next time,” he said, accepting the lie easily, and Derek released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Yeah.”  Derek dragged a tired hand across his face, the tension finally starting to seep out of his body, and let his gaze drift over the room.  He groaned when he spotted the destroyed door, now in six separate pieces, and gave Scott a sour look.  “Seriously?”

Scott at least had the decency to look guilty.  “Sorry?” 

He didn’t sound sorry. 

Annoyed, Derek knelt down to inspect one of the larger remnants, wincing when he noticed the splintered edge.  “Yeah, this isn’t fixable,” he grumbled. “I’ll try to find something to replace it with tomorrow.”

“Sorry.”  This time, Scott really did sound apologetic, so Derek let the issue go without further comment and pushed back to his feet, glancing at the sky outside.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” he noted.  “We’ll have to find something to cover the frame in the meantime.  Let’s go grab Stiles then figure that out.”

“Oh, shit – Stiles!” 

Derek snorted, amused, and fell into step as they started walking to the crops. “And here I thought you two were surgically attached,” he commented.  “I’ll be sure to let him know you completely forgot that he exists.”

“I didn’t forget, I was just…distracted.”

Good god, was he whining? Derek risked a glance, suppressing a laugh at the honest-to-god pout on the other boy’s face.

They didn’t speak much after that, closing the distance between the house and the yard at a lazy pace, allowing a comfortable silence to fall between them.  Derek was surprised to find himself enjoying the familiarity.  It had been a while since it was just the two of them, after all.

Scott must have pushed himself hard to reach the house as quickly as he had, as it took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the field.  By the time they arrived, the sky was completely obscured by grey clouds, and the first drops of rain were starting to fall.

“Stiles?”  Derek scanned the field, sharp eyes searching for the now-familiar shock of dark hair, the pale skin and long limbs of the boy who had firmly entrenched himself into his life.

He couldn’t see him, and Derek’s heart skipped a beat.

“He should be here,” Scott said uncertainly, not needing to be asked.  He cupped his hands to his mouth and called Stiles’ name, fear colouring his voice as it bounced off tree trunks and carried deep into the Preserve.

He was answered by silence, and that goddamn itch returned tenfold, digging deep between Derek’s shoulder blades, suddenly painful in its intensity.

Stiles was gone.

* * *

Stiles fidgeted nervously as Scott disappeared toward the house.  Suddenly, the area seemed incredibly exposed, and he shifted his weight restlessly as though to dislodge the feel of phantom eyes burning into his back.

“Ah, screw it.”

Two steps to his left, a quick crouch to snag the small bag of vegetables, and then he was off, racing for the tree line.  It was the opposite direction to Scott, but the woods were denser and it was closer to the creek – just maybe, the babbling water would help conceal him from any intruders.

Was Derek okay?  His mind raced, a thousand potential scenarios blossoming in his mind, and he didn’t like any of them.

Because he had spent the last three weeks studying these not-quite-accurate versions of his friends, and he was ninety percent sure that this version of Derek was a better fighter than his own.  There was something about the haunted look in his eyes, the deadly precision of his movements and the confidence of his decisions that spoke of experiences Stiles didn’t care to consider.

On the other hand, this version of Scott seemed less weathered than his counterpart, still wide-eyed and innocent in ways that Stiles’ best friend was not.

Which meant that if something had happened to Derek, Stiles was in real trouble.

A guilty corner of his mind wondered why he wasn’t helping, but his rational side squashed that immediately.  What the hell was he going to do?  It wasn’t like he could come crashing in at the eleventh hour with his Jeep, or a certain banshee, or some titbit of information to help the werewolves turn the tide in a fight.  No, he was better off keeping himself safe and regrouping with them down the line.

He was well into the trees by now, trudging a winding path to nowhere.  The creek was much louder though, the ground sloping down and the fallen leaves becoming slippery with moss, so he angled toward the sound.  It wasn’t long before the water came into view and he stumbled to a stop at the bank.

Then he froze, skin prickling uncomfortably.

Something was watching him.

He turned slowly, sharp gaze darting through the surrounding trees until he found them: two bright blue eyes, knee-height amongst the trunks, following his every move with dangerous precision. 

“Malia?” Stiles gaped.

The coyote snarled, lips pulling back to reveal sharp white teeth glistening with saliva.

Oh. 

Oh, shit.

Stiles heart ticked up alongside his rapidly-rising panic.  He shrunk down, wishing he could just disappear into the background, and raised his palms in surrender. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured her, lowly.  _Like I could actually hurt you. Jesus._ “Please don’t eat me.”

The coyote rumbled, slinking forward to stop at the edge of the tree line.  She held her head low, her shoulders bunched around her neck, and her eyes slowly tracked from his face to his hand.

No, not his hand.  The bag full of vegetables, dangling at his side.

“Are you hungry?”  Slowly, deliberately, Stiles brought the bag to his front, then slipped a hand in and pulled out a carrot.   He placed it flat on his palm and stretched out toward her.

She hesitated.  Her eyes darted from the carrot to Stiles’ face and back again, but after a moment the hunger won out.  She writhed forward in a single graceful movement and picked the carrot from his palm, careful to step back out of his reach before devouring it in seconds.

Stiles barely noticed, too busy staring in horror.  Now that she was out in the open, he could see her clearly: the ribs poking out of her sides, the pallor of her nose, the legs that looked entirely too skinny to be holding her up.

“Holy crap,” he muttered.  “What the hell happened?”

Malia didn’t respond.  Her ravenous gaze returned to the bag, and she growled softly.

“Just a sec.”  Stiles reached back into the bag and grabbed a handful of beans.  This time, she didn’t hesitate.  She picked them up one by one, wrenching her head back to toss each one lightly into the air before catching it and moving back for the next.

“So, you haven’t figured out how to change back to human, huh?  I guess that makes sense.  But why are you so hungry?”

The coyote made a noise that was almost a huff and nudged his hand impatiently with her nose.

“Alright, alright, here you go.”  Stiles dug both hands into the bag and pulled out a few potatoes, setting them on the ground.  This time it took her a moment to figure out how to approach them, but eventually she sprawled out on the ground, belly against the leaves, and held each one steady with a paw as she bit down with strong jaws.

Stiles’ fear quickly being replaced by fascination.  This was a side of Malia he’d never really seen, but they’d talked about it, once, in the early hours of the morning when they had both been too haunted and too anxious and too restless to sleep.

“What was it like?  How much of you was in there?”

She had rolled onto her side, deep brown eyes thoughtful as she considered her response. “It was all me,” she eventually decided.  “Sort of.  I knew who I was, but it was like it didn’t matter anymore.  All that mattered was survival – food, water, shelter.”

Stiles pondered that for a moment.  “You still cared about your sister, though.”

It was something he would never have said in the daylight, but there was a safety in the darkness, in the warmth of her body and the stillness of the night, and he knew that she felt the same.

“I did,” Malia agreed, her voice pained.  “But that was different.  She was a huge part of my life, a part of _me,_ and when she died…it was like I lost part of myself.  And I think the coyote knew that too.  Protecting her memory was my way of clinging on to who I was, of keeping me grounded – that’s why it was so important.  Without that…I think I would have been gone.”

Her voice shook slightly on the words, and Stiles had stroked a hand down her arm in gentle commiseration, winding his fingers into hers when he reached her hand. 

“Do you still miss it?”

He felt her swallow in the darkness, her fingers momentarily tightening against his own. 

“Sometimes.”  Her voice was strained, weighed down with guilt.  “Things are so complicated now.  Dad can’t look at me without seeing ghosts.  Lydia doesn’t trust me, and I don’t know why.  I have to pretend to be someone I’m not when we’re at school.  So, yeah, sometimes it’s tempting to just run back to my den and focus on survival.  It’s a simpler life.”

Stiles shuffled forward in bed, brushing a gentle kiss on her brow before touching his forehead to her own. “I’m glad you haven’t,” he whispered, and her lips softened into a smile.

So much had happened since that conversation – the deadpool, Mexico, _Donavan_ – but Stiles could still remember every detail, every lilt in her voice and tic of her fingers, the stain on her shirt and the mussed strands of her hair.  Her words rang in his mind as he watched the coyote scoff down his food, and his heart ached for her.

“There’s a field of crops half a mile that way,” Stiles told her, once she slowed down to breathe, pointing in the direction of the Hale house.  “You can take whatever you need to from there.”

Malia followed his finger, then stiffened a second later.  She growled softly, eyes glowing blue, and turned back to lock her gaze with his.  Slowly, deliberately, she shook her head.

Well.  That was something Stiles never thought he’d see.

Setting aside the sheer weirdness of the visual, Stiles pulled his attention back to more important matters.  “Seriously, it’s fine,” he assured her.  “We’ve got plenty.”

That got a response.  She tossed her head, agitated, and let out a vicious snarl.

Stiles jumped, his panic returning in an instant.  He tried to step backward, but his foot slipped and the next thing he knew he was sprawled on his ass in the dirt.  

Malia stared at him with something akin to annoyance.

She carefully turned her head toward the Hale house, then back to him.  Then she prowled forward, one careful paw at a time, and Stiles clenched his fists in an effort to quiet his suddenly-shaking hands. 

She didn’t stop moving until she was basically on top of him, her front paws between his legs and her snout pressed against his neck.  Then she let out a high-pitched yelp and snapped her jaws, so close that Stiles felt he air move against his skin.

Stiles was frozen, too terrified to breathe when she finally pulled back, and he stared blankly at her bright blue eyes, only inches from his own.

Then, he realised what she was trying to say.

“They attacked you?” Horror coursed through him, instantly burning away his fear.  “Derek attacked you for eating his crops, didn’t he?”

Malia’s eyes glowed once in confirmation.

“That arrogant, self-righteous, know-it-all _dick!_ ”  Stiles’ voice was rising heatedly with each word, but he was too angry to care.  “This fucking universe, I swear.  I’m honestly surprised he didn’t leave me to die back in the clinic.”

Malia didn’t reply.  Apparently satisfied that her message was received, she had completely disengaged from the conversation in favour of nuzzling the bag with her snout.

Stiles’ gut twisted.  He left her to it, looking back at the trees that blocked the Hale house from view.  He hadn’t heard any further howls, but Scott had run off at least half an hour ago.  Which could mean only one of two things: either Derek and Scott were in trouble, and it wasn’t safe to return, or they had won, and would soon be looking for him.

Right now, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

Scott – the _real_ Scott – was in there somewhere, he was sure.  But Derek was his alpha, and this Scott clearly wasn’t used to taking charge.  Would he really stand up for Stiles if Derek tried to hold him prisoner? 

He wanted to say yes, but his gut told him no.

On the other hand, leaving meant no food, no protection, no shelter.  How long would he even last without Derek’s help?

_If I go there will be trouble…_

The tune pounded, unbidden, through his mind.

_If I stay there will be double…_

“Guess The Clash had it right,” Stiles murmured.  Malia glanced up at him, and he felt compelled to explain, even though he was pretty sure she couldn’t care less.  “I can’t stay here, I don’t think.”

She grumbled in response and he took that as agreement.  Stiles sighed, taking one last moment to enjoy the company before pulling himself to his feet and frowning at the threatening clouds.  They had steadily darkened over the last half hour, and the scent of rain was stronger than ever. 

“The walk into town’s gonna suck,” he complained, scrunching his nose in annoyance.  “The rain should mask my scent, though, right?”

Malia stared, unimpressed.  Stiles sighed once more, then nudged the bag with his foot.  “Take it,” he offered.  “I’d ask you to come with, but there’s only so many times a guy can get rejected in a lifetime, and I think I’ve blown my quota on Lydia.”

That was apparently all the invitation she needed.  Malia darted forward in a flash, grabbing the half-empty bag in her jaws and turning tail, disappearing from sight within seconds.

Stiles squared his shoulders, wincing in annoyance as the first drops of rain spattered onto his face.  Then he turned, and took his first steps toward town.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpopular opinion: Stalia was the best-written romance in the show. I'll always prefer Stydia as endgame, but Malia and Stiles was the one relationship that felt real from beginning to end, and I love them for it.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading! Updates have been a bit closer together lately since I've stopped worrying about writing later chapters and have just been focussed on tidying up these ones for posting. Mostly because I ended up just rewriting most of these chapters anyway. Anyway, the point is that it shouldn't be too long a wait for the next one. Thanks again guys!


	10. The Road Less Travelled

Peter frowned into his tea.  “You didn’t see anything else?  No portals, no strange lights, no second fairy?" 

“No.”  Scott stood stiffly, arms folded tightly across his chest.  He had been seething ever since Peter emerged from Eichen with the others, and his words came out unusually clipped.  “He was right in front of us, and then he wasn’t.  I didn’t see any portals, but I was also a little distracted by the trees bursting into flames so who the fuck knows?”

Lydia glanced at him, sharply.  Scott noticed, and clenched his jaw in response.

Right. 

That was a problem she was going to have to deal with eventually, but for now she had bigger problems.  She slipped into a seat near Peter and waited until he shifted his attention to her before speaking.   “So, what do you think?” she prodded.

Peter gave a half-hearted shrug.  “I think he could be anywhere.”

Lydia deliberately ignored Scott’s growl, which she was pretty sure was at least partly directed at her, and instead levelled Peter with a glare.  “You can do better than that.”

“Actually, I don’t think I can.” A humourless smile briefly flitted across Peter’s face, and for a moment he seemed almost regretful.  “You know Stiles is a spark, right?  A potentiate?”

“Figured that out when the fairy went after him,” Scott muttered.  “Would have been nice if someone mentioned it sooner.”

Peter snorted.  “Yes, well.  I suspected your emissary friend kept it quiet for the same reason I did. Do you know much about sparks?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll fill me in.”

The words were thick with sarcasm, and Peter shot an exasperated look in Lydia’s direction.  “If I knew I was going to have deal with _this_ , I would have stayed in my cell.  What’s his deal?”

“None of your business,” Lydia responded swiftly.  She could almost feel the heat of Scott’s anger rising behind her, and just barely refrained from turning around to glare at him.  Surely he could tell that Peter was deliberately riling him up?  Then again, with the way he’d been acting lately…she needed to get this conversation back on track, _now._   “Why would Deaton keep it a secret?”

Peter took the bait.  Thank god for small wonders.  “Not all sparks are created equal,” he explained, tightening his grip around his mug.  “It’s not a perfect analogy, but some people like to describe sparks as beings who are able to manipulate energy – energy from within, but more importantly, energy from their surroundings.  That’s the true source of their power.  The thing is, all sparks have limitations.  They can only handle so much energy at once.”

“What does this have to do with Stiles?” 

“Stiles…” Peter shook his head, impressed.  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  A spark of his potential should never have been able to hide - he should have been having magical outbursts long before fairies showed up.  How he managed to suppress it I have no idea.”

“So he’s…strong?  Is that what you’re saying?”  Lydia asked, hating feeling lost.

“More than strong,” Peter clarified.  “That’s why I offered him the bite.  Werewolves can’t be sparks – it gets destroyed during the transition.  Better to take him off the playing field before he found out - of course, he never did in the end, anyway.”

Lydia blinked, taken aback. She stole a quick glance behind her, somewhat surprised to find Scott looking equally bewildered.   

Huh.  Seems like Stiles had been keeping that a secret from both of them, then.  That would be something to ask him when he got back, she supposed, but first...

“So, what you’re trying to say is that the fairy didn’t take Stiles,” Lydia said, slowly.  “He did it himself?”

“Well, maybe.  He’s certainly capable.  And if the fairy was already dead…well, it’s the most logical explanation, isn’t it?”

“So how do we find him?”

“Unless you have a good tracking spell, you don’t.”

Scott lurched forward, pressing both hands onto the table.  His chest heaved, his eyes flashing red as he pinned Peter with a glare.  “Stop. Stalling.”

Peter narrowed his eyes.  “Believe it or not, I _am_ actually trying, Scott.  But Stiles could be literally _anywhere_.  Australia. Pluto.  A pocket dimension.  Magic is unpredictable, and he has no control.”

“There has to be something, though,” Lydia pleaded, desperately.  “If Stiles did this, then he can undo it, right?”

Peter moved to shake his head, but then halted.  A contemplative expression crossed his face, and his eyes studied Lydia’s own. 

“Well. Maybe there is one thing we could try.” 

* * *

 

_The trees stretched endlessly to the sky. The leaves were still, and his footsteps made no sound as he mindlessly walked down the path._

_He’d been here before._

_He knew, vaguely, what was coming.  A clearing, a tortured body, a pointed face that would send his heart racing…and yet he kept walking, slow and even, drawing closer to a place he didn’t want to be._

_He wanted to stop, to turn, to run the other direction, but his feet refused to listen.  He wanted to close his eyes, to shield himself from the horror he knew was coming, but his face refused to change._

_He was a puppet, controlled by something just beyond his senses, and he was helpless to stop._

_He walked, and time drifted immeasurably, and then there it was._

_The clearing._

_The body._

_He walked the edge of the circle, eyes drifting over the tree trunks, soaking in the patterns of the bark and the picture-perfect leaves, until he finally reached the other side._

_Then he turned, and he stumbled back, heart pounding in his chest, mouth open in a scream…_

Stiles jerked awake, soaked in sweat, biting back a scream before it could tear from his throat.

He leaned forward on his palms, gasping, heart thumping against his ribs, and tried to focus on the floorboards.

Floorboards.  There was a stain to his left, and a scrape on the wall to his right.  He was sitting on a mattress, which was bowing slightly beneath his weight.  There was a light breeze tickling his skin through a gap in the window, and somewhere in the distance a drone was whirring away, breaking up the silence of the night.

He was okay.

Jesus, _fuck_.

He flopped back onto the mattress with a groan, blowing air through pursed lips while he waited for his heart to slow. 

What _was_ that? 

He was no stranger to nightmares, but this one was different.  It was too clear, too real, imprinting on his mind with perfect clarity in a way that had only happened once before.

_Do you like riddles, Stiles?_

Stiles shuddered, rubbing away the sudden goosebumps on his arms and looking around for a distraction.

Whatever this was, it was _not_ the nogitsune.  It couldn’t be, because he didn’t know what he would do if it was.

His gaze landed on a pile of books and he jumped at the distraction, leaning over a grabbing a couple before opening to where he had left off.

He had found the books in Deaton’s back room, where he had cautiously stopped on his way into town.  He knew it was a risk – if Derek was looking for him, that would surely be the first place he’d check – but it was a risk he had to take.  If he had any hope of getting back to his universe, Deaton was his best bet.  And since the man was currently MIA, his books would have to do.

He couldn’t carry them all, so he had picked four that looked promising before slinking out of the clinic, picking up his bike and bag that were miraculously untouched, and continuing into town.

He stopped well before the town centre, not willing to wander the streets after dusk, and instead picked an abandoned house at random and settled in for the night.  Derek would find him sooner or later, he was sure, but hopefully Scott would hold him up at least long enough for Stiles to figure out his strategy.

In the meantime, he had four books to read.

The first one he remembered from his own world.  This was the book Deaton had open on his desk when he told them about the fairies, and several times he had paused to reference something in the text.

It didn’t take Stiles long to find the right section.

_The term ‘fairy’, also known as ‘fairie’, ‘faerie’, ‘fae’, ‘fairfolk’ and more (see table no. 32), refers to a collection of non-human species that utilise magic and are capable of travelling to the fairy dimension (also referred to as TirNaNog, Alfheim, Faerie, Fairyland – see table no. 33).  These species vary significantly in appearance, motive, capabilities and intelligence, which will be discussed later in this chapter.  However, all known species appear to originate from Ireland, the United Kingdom, and Scandinavia.  Today, they are primarily found throughout these areas as well as Western Europe and Russia, and less commonly in North America. To date, there have been no confirmed reports of Fae in South America, Sub-Saharan Africa or Australasia._

Stiles chewed his lip, skipping past the rest of the epidemiology lesson and scanning the chapter headings for something more useful. 

_Species Differentiation…_

_Common Myths…_

_Interdimensional Travel…_

That last one gave him pause, and he stopped to skim the section. 

_The exact location of Fairyland has never been proven_ , the author explained.  _This, combined with the pathognomic fairy affinity for magic and the oft-recognised tendency to suddenly disappear, has led to the hypothesis that Fairyland could in fact be a pocket dimension existing outside of measurable space and time, or perhaps another realm in the hypothesised multiverse.  However, to date there has been no firm evidence to support either of these theories, despite extensive investigation by the likes of fairy experts Robert Hamm and Sean Stratt._

“Do I have news for you, pal,” Stiles scoffed, flipping to the next page.  “I’d give you a good price for the story but I have a feeling it wouldn’t make the cut, Mister Can’t-Stay-Impartial-To-Save-His-Life. My sixth grade teacher wants a word about your objectivity.”

He skipped right past the section on fairy reproduction (although he raised an eyebrow at some of the diagrams and made a mental note to show them to Scott sometime – it was always amusing to see him flustered) and quickly skimmed the rest of the chapter. 

“Nope…not useful…okay, that’s weird and I’ll look into it when I get home.  Aaand…done.”  His mouth twisted into an annoyed frown and he tossed the book aside, where it landed with an appropriately pathetic thump.

Book number two was much heavier than the first, imbued with that musty smell that seemed to follow old books everywhere.  He could barely read the title, faded as it was on the cover, but when he squinted he could just make it out: _Potentiates and Druids: A Guide to Elementals._

He had debated leaving this book behind at the clinic, but at the last minute had packed it into his bag with the others.  It was a long shot, but he recognised the cover – Deaton had been putting it away when they walked into the room not long before they stumbled across a nightmare dressed in fairy’s clothing.  Plus, there was that odd similarity between the words that hadn’t escaped his notice – the book’s ‘Potentiates’ versus Deaton’s ‘magical potential’. 

Like he said, it was a long shot.  But, desperate times and all that.

Stiles opened the cover and stared wide-eyed at the narrow margins and tiny font doing their best to accommodate far too many words.  He skimmed the text and was struck by the lack of adjectives, each short sentence packing a wealth of information, and he immediately clutched the book tightly in relief.

Scott had always been somewhat flummoxed by Stiles’ love of information.  He’d never gone so far to tease him for it, but he also never seemed to feel that blossoming awe at the sight of so much knowledge, available right at his fingertips.

This book was a gold mine, and it made his heart soar.

He settled himself into a more comfortable position, back against a wall and legs sprawled out in front of him, and began to read.  He was immediately sucked into the text, and within minutes his surroundings faded into irrelevance as he lost himself in the words.

He was so intrigued, he didn’t realise he wasn’t alone until the door suddenly burst open.  

* * *

 

"Just try to focus on him.  Pick a memory – any memory – of the two of you together.  Try to imagine that you're back in that moment."

Lydia pressed her lips together but didn't speak.  Her hand tightened around the cool metal of Stiles' keys, and she tried to block everything out and focus on Stiles.

It was hard, though.  Peter's silky voice make her skin crawl, and she hated not being able to see.  He had insisted that darkness would help her focus, and ordinarily she would have agreed with him, but now it was just putting her on edge, leaving part of her to constantly wonder where he was, what he was doing, where he was looking.

Goosebumps prickled her skin, and her free hand closed around the fabric of her skirt.

"Lydia? You okay?"

_No._  Scott's voice was cautiously hopeful, though, and she clung to it, letting it ground her and help her focus on what she was supposed to be doing.  "Yes.  Although I want to point out that I've already tried this."

"Then I'll point out – yet again – that you've tried searching for him as a banshee.  But you're also his anchor, and you need to use that.  It's completely different."

Lydia opened her eyes, briefly, to shoot Peter a glare.  "It doesn't feel different."

He merely arched an eyebrow in response, and she tightened her jaw before closing her eyes once more.

_There's a reason you went to Peter for help,_ she reminded herself, bitterly.  _You have to try._

Just focus on Stiles.  Okay.  She could do this.

Which memory?  Her mind skittered around the last time she'd seen him – doubled over, covered in green blood, face twisted with fear – and instead settled on a moment from much further back.

_"Lydia, back me up on this!" Stiles was clearly going for plaintive, but he couldn’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice as he dumped his tray on the table and launched himself into the empty seat beside her.  "Coach can't actually force the lacrosse team to do track all summer, right?  This is a blatant abuse of power, and the team captain needs to call him out on it!"_

_Lydia stared, blinking once before glancing across the room.  It only took a moment for her to spot Aiden, chatting to Ethan in the queue, still a good five minutes away from returning with his food._

_Shit._

_She returned her attention to Stiles, who had apparently taken her silence as agreement and was now tearing into his lunch, and she curled her lip in distaste as he shoved a full handful of chips into his mouth and started chewing._

_"What are you doing?" she hissed.  She hunched her shoulders, leaning forward in an effort to stop anyone from overhearing._

_Stiles raised his eyebrows, answering through a mouthful of food. "Eating."  He swallowed, then smacked his lips in satisfaction and shot her a broad grin.  "Same as everyone else in this room."_

_Rolling her eyes, Lydia glanced pointedly at the chair Stiles was occupying and tried again.  "Why are you sitting here?"_

_"Oh." This time, Stiles popped a single chip in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing before answering.  "Scott's got detention. I thought I'd hang out with you."_

_If Lydia's eyes grew any larger, they'd fall right out of her head.  "Hang out?" she echoed, utterly gobsmacked.  "Since when do we 'hang out'?"_

_"I don't know, since the world nearly ended?" Stiles was frowning, now, and for once there was no trace of humour on his face.  "What, were you planning to go back to ignoring me?"_

Yes. _Lydia didn't say it aloud, but her answer must have shown on her face as Stiles flinched backward, warm brown eyes radiating hurt._

_"Wow," he muttered.  He picked up another chip, fiddling with it listlessly before nodding to the empty seats across the table.  "Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of all your friends."_

_The words sliced through her heart, and Lydia's breath caught.  She felt her cheeks burn, a mixture of anger and humiliation, and she stood so abruptly that her chair scraped across the floor with a high-pitched squeal.  Her jaw clamped shut, but her hands were trembling when she reached out to grab her tray._

_A gentle hand clasped her wrist, holding her in place, and she whipped her head up to glare at him only to be taken aback by the sight of his pale face.  In mere seconds, all the blood had drained away, and his eyes were wide with regret._

_"Sorry," he said.  His voice was soft but earnest, and she noticed with surprise that his hand was shaking more than hers when he let her go.  "That was out of line."_

_"Yeah.  It was." Lydia hesitated, glancing from him to Aiden, who had barely moved in the queue, to the empty seats lining the table._

_It was completely out of line._

_But…well.  It was also true._

_Slowly, cautiously, she pulled her chair back into place and lowered herself back down.  Stiles was still watching her every movement, barely breathing as though scared of setting her off, and she blew out a breath through pursed lips while she gathered her thoughts._

_"You know Aiden will be here soon," she said, which was entirely not what she meant to say, but okay._

_Stiles, thankfully, was perfectly at ease rolling with the conversation.  "I figured," he said. "I'm sure we'll manage."_

_"And I_ do _have friends, you know."_

_"I know."_

_"They're just busy right now."_

_"Okay."_

_Lydia squinted, trying to read through his implacable expression.  He responded by quirking a small smile, then popped another chip into his mouth._

_Lydia couldn't help it.  She felt her own smile appear, her shoulders relaxing automatically, and for the first time in forever she couldn't feel dozens of eyes boring into her or hear the whispers about the queen bee's fall from grace passing behind her back while she ate._

_All she could feel was the warmth of his companionship, and she felt lighter than she had for weeks._

_"So," Stiles remarked, as he reached over to her tray and grabbed her bread roll for himself, "Star Wars or Star Trek?", and Lydia hid a smile behind a groan._

"Well?" Peter asked, his voice shattering the memory in an instant.  "What do you feel?"

What did she feel?

She felt…empty.  The memory faded, leaving her with a black hole, a void that grew larger with every second, with every breath.

"I can't feel him at all," she confessed, her tone as lifeless as she felt inside.  "He's just gone."

* * *

 

Stiles cursed, dropping his book to the floor and scrambling to his feet in a movement that was far slower than he would have liked.  He had barely made it upright when something slammed into him, sending him spiralling across the room to crash painfully into the far wall.  

Fucking hell.

Pain exploded in his back, instantly wiping away his building panic, and Stiles froze when he finally recognised the figure standing mere inches away.

Derek’s feet were firmly planted shoulder-width apart, and his hands were clenched into fists.

Ah, shit.

Stiles managed a weak smile, and a faint wave.  “Hi.”

Derek’s glare intensified, and Stiles couldn’t quite hold back a wince.

“What the hell were you _thinking?_ ” the alpha bellowed.  His voice was pure fury, bouncing off the walls to fill the room. “You could have been killed, you absolute idiot.  You could have gotten _us_ killed.”

Stiles unfroze long enough to roll his eyes.  “Well, I didn’t. Clearly.”

“Shut up.  You have no _idea_ how risky this stunt of yours was.”

The words broke through Stiles’ icy fear, igniting a small spark of anger.  “Probably not,” he said, tightly.  “That’s kind of the problem.  I need to be looking for answers, and I’m not going to find them digging up potatoes.”

Derek’s eyes flashed, fur creeping over his face.  “You’re not going to find them in a pool of your own blood either, which is apparently where you’re determined to look.”

Stiles scoffed.  “Right.  Because my safety is your chief concern here.”  The spark turned to flame, flowing from his chest to his shoulders, and in the distance, lightning cracked through the night sky.

And – _wait, what?_

Shocked, Stiles didn’t even hear Derek’s angry retort, too focussed on his suddenly-burning limbs.  His gaze whipped from his hands to the window, and his jaw dropped.

_It had to be coincidence._  He was human, he couldn’t possibly…

Hands grabbed his shoulders, dragging him back to the present.  Derek loomed over him, fingers digging painfully into Stiles' arms, fury etched into every line of his face. 

“ _Listen to me_ ,” he growled.  “If we leave now, we can be back at the house by morning.  We can finish arguing there.”

The heat increased, racing tracks from his heart to his shoulders to his forearms to his fingers.  It was electricity, it was fire, it was _power_.

Stiles raised his head, locking gazes with Derek, and –

_CRACK._

The window exploded.  Glass shards flew in all directions, and something whipped across Stiles’ vision, too fast for him to follow.  He leapt back, pressing himself against the wood as Derek darted toward the now-empty frame, eyes automatically tracing the motion to a slender arrow, buried in the opposite wall.

And a moment later heavy footsteps pounded down the hall, and he gaped, suddenly numb, as they appeared in the doorway, one by one.

Isaac.  Jackson.  Boyd.

It was like looking through a fun-house mirror, Stiles thought manically.  Isaac’s curls, Jackson’s haughty gaze, the deliberate set of Boyd’s jaw.  The curl of Jackson’s lip, Boyd’s yellow eyes, the nervous twitch of Isaac’s cheek.  There were so many details that were all-too-familiar, and they tugged at Stiles’ gut, urging him to stumble forward and open his mouth, to regale them with the _Would-you-believes_ and the _you’ll-never-guess_ es and the _I-had-the-craziests._

But the picture was wrong.

Isaac’s cheekbones were too pronounced, making his eyes seem huge and his cheeks hollow. A long scar marred Jackson’s pretty face, tracing its way from his lip to his hairline, pulling one side of his mouth higher than the other.

And then there was Boyd, who by rights shouldn’t have been there at all.

Stiles’ world shook, his vision threatening to collapse, and he barely realised that the heat had fled.  None of the boys seemed to notice his surprise, though, sparing him nothing more than a cursory gaze before turning their attention to Derek.

_It’s an alternate reality,_ he reminded himself for the hundredth time, fighting back a wave of nausea.  _They might as well not be real.  Just breathe._

( _They seem pretty fucking real_ , his subconscious pointed out, and he squeezed his eyes shut and begged it to be quiet, just this once, and let him believe the lie.)

Slowly, so slowly, the world found its axis.  The floor solidified beneath his feet, sharp pains sprung up in his palms from where his fingernails pierced his flesh, and the spots stopped dancing across his vision. 

And then his ears started working again, and he realised they were arguing.

“I’ve told you before.  I’m not getting involved.”

That was Derek.  He could tell by the barely-controlled rage thundering beneath the surface, ready to boil over at any second.

“If you think you can stay out of this, you’re kidding yourself."

That was…Jackson? Maybe?  It sounded like him, but the words weren’t right, too concerned for the normally-arrogant teen.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway - this isn’t about you.  We’re just asking you to stop keeping Scott away from us.”

That voice, Stiles recognised easily.  Isaac was always a master at ordering people about without sounding like he was giving directions.  It was something about the confident, sardonic tone that he used – and it never failed to raised Stiles’ hackles.

Apparently, that particular trait managed to stay constant across dimensions.  Just his luck.

Stiles crinkled his nose, irritation chasing away his panic, and felt the world stabilise.  He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders back to a more comfortable position, and finally raised his head so that he could see the newcomers properly.

Isaac and Jackson were facing Derek, crowding him into the wall next to the window.  Jackson was frowning, his arms crossed disapprovingly across his chest, while Isaac’s were held stiffly by his side, his fingers clenching and unclenching in preparation for a fight.  Neither of them were paying any attention to Stiles.

Boyd, however, was a different story.  The larger boy stood steady in the doorway, his hands seemingly relaxed by his sides, but his dark eyes were fixed on Stiles, studying him intently, and when he realised Stiles had noticed he didn’t so much as blink.

It made Stiles shiver.  Guilt and fear and relief raced through his veins, and he wondered if Boyd could tell.

“Get out of my way.  I’m leaving.”  The words were followed by a familiar snarl, and Stiles whipped his head around to see Derek’s lip curling back to reveal sharp fangs. Both Isaac and Jackson tensed, but a moment later they stepped aside, allowing Derek to move back to the centre of the room.

Derek’s chest was heaving, and he glared at all three werewolves before turning his crimson gaze to Stiles.  “Come on,” he growled.

Stiles jerked, surprised.  “Uh…what?”

There were four sets of eyes on him now, conveying a weird mix of surprise, annoyance and curiosity. 

The annoyance was from Derek, who let out a growl of pure frustration before turning to face Stiles head-on.  “I said, _come on_ ,” he said through clenched teeth.  “We need to go."

Gobsmacked, Stiles raised his hands and shrugged helplessly.  “No thanks?  I thought I made my stance pretty clear on this.”

Derek’s eyes burned and he snarled once more, raising himself to his full height and taking a step closer.

Instantly, the three other werewolves leapt forward.  Claws burst from their fingers, their eyes glowed yellow and blue, ridges formed on their faces, and their muscles strained as they somehow put themselves in Derek’s path, converging on the small space between him and Stiles.

Stiles’ breath caught.  No one spoke, but the tension in the room was palpable, Derek’s anger flowing off him in waves, the three teenagers planting their feet and holding firm against it.

The moment stretched on, until it didn’t.

“Fine,” Derek snapped, stepping back and lifting his chin.  He swept his eyes over them one by one, leaving everyone in no doubt as to his opinion on the matter, before finally settling on Stiles.  “Don’t come crying to me when you end up dead,” he spat, and then he was gone.

Stiles rocked on his heels, taken aback by his sudden exit, and pushed down the part of him that wanted to chase after Derek, to hold the older man still and explain to him over and over again until he understood.

It refused to subside, so he shuffled his feet and glared bitterly at the door instead, so focussed on Derek that he almost forget that there were three other werewolves watching him intently until Isaac stepped directly into his field of vision and raised a curious eyebrow.

“So.  Who the hell are you?”


	11. The School

 

“So.  Who the hell are you?” 

For once, Stiles' mind was completely blank. “Um.”

Isaac’s eyebrows crept upward.  Jackson squared his shoulders, hands curling into loose fists. 

It was an uncannily familiar movement, and Stiles had to forcibly redirect his gaze when he realised he was staring.  “I’m a friend of Derek’s?”

Jackson’s frown deepened, and even Boyd was now eyeing him doubtfully.  “That didn’t sound particularly friendly,” Boyd pointed out.

His voice was exactly the same.  Quiet but firm, steadily even and carefully controlled.  It sparked off another wave of guilt, and Stiles’ legs wobbled as he struggled to stay upright against the crushing weight.

But Boyd didn’t seem to notice.  He was waiting patiently for a response, perfectly at ease behind the other two boys, curious eyes drifting from Stiles’ thin face to his trembling hands to his dirty clothes, and Stiles snapped himself out of his trance with a shake.

“You’ve met Derek, right?” he responded finally, gesturing to the door.  He crinkled his nose in annoyance, hoping to project an aura of confidence, trying his best to ignore the part of him that wanted to race after the alpha.  “Trust me, we’re best buds.  He’s just pissed at me for coming back into town.”

“Why come back, then?”

Stiles hesitated.  _Because they were going to hold me prisoner.  Because I need to find a way home._

He couldn't tell them that.  Honestly, he had no idea why the three teenagers had leapt to his defence, but they were clearly friends of Scott, which meant they would probably drag Stiles kicking and screaming back to the house if they thought that was what the other boy wanted.  And there was no point telling them the truth, anyway – his story had been a hard enough sell to Scott and Derek even with the Pack's scent present to help his case.  There was absolutely no way they'd believe him.

So, a partial truth, then.

“I wanted to help out,” Stiles hedged.  "I'm new here, but Scott told me a little about what's going on. It sounds..bad.”

Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Peter or Satomi?”

Stiles opened his mouth, but no words came out.  He swayed slightly, taken aback for the third time in as many minutes, and wondered just how many shocks he could handle before he completely lost his mind.

Peter was a common name, right?  There had to be a thousand Peters out there, and surely he couldn’t be _that_ unlucky…but, no.  Stiles’ stomach twisted, and he flinched internally.  Peter fucking Hale…it would be _just_ like him to use this situation to take charge.

His gut screamed at him to avoid Peter at all costs, but then that left Satomi.  Stiles had only met the older werewolf once and had never actually had a conversation with her.  Would she be any better?  Derek spoke of her with an uncharacteristic reverence, which had to be a good sign, but then again – alternate reality.  Who knew what she was like here?

Isaac’s patience was visibly fading by the second and Jackson’s face was hardening with annoyance, so Stiles gave himself a shake.  Fuck it.  He was out of time.

“Satomi,” he blurted out.   “Why, what about you?”

Isaac didn't reply.  Stiles' heart raced, his breath caught as he watched him exchange a glance with Jackson and Boyd, that latter of whom lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  Their wordless conversation passed straight over Stiles’ head, but they must have come to a decision because Isaac turned back reluctantly gestured him forward.

“Come on,” the taller boy sighed.  “I’ll take you to her.”

* * *

 

Beacon Hills was one of those places that toed the line between town and city.  The main street boasted a variety of storefronts and a vibrant bustle of activity.  There were not two but three different grocery stores to choose from, multiple well-kept parks, enough traffic lights to make the old-timers moan about the ‘good old days’, and a shiny new multi-storey shopping centre with its very own carpark that opened five years ago to much fanfare.

On the other hand, there was only one public pool, which catered to both the serious athletes and the children’s splash play.  The coffee shop on the main street had been running for nearly fifty years under the same family, and it was almost impossible to go into town without being stopped on the street for opportunistic catch-ups by friendly acquaintances. 

And despite the population boom of seven-years-ago that had lead to new housing developments and modern conveniences, the entire town was serviced by a single high school and a single Sheriff’s station.  Both of which, Stiles learned, had been converted into headquarters for the two factions of supernatural refugees currently being held in the Beacon Hills Internment Camp.

The school was almost unrecognisable when Isaac and Boyd brought Stiles inside.  Jackson had already disappeared by then, after a whispered conversation that Stiles courteously pretended not to notice and a final suspicious stare that burned into the back of Stiles' skull.

Yeah.  He might have passed their wolfy lie-detection test, but Stiles was pretty sure they didn't believe him in the slightest.

Boyd kept just a little too close to comfort as he shepherded Stiles into the school grounds, nudging the smaller boy forward when he froze in his tracks to stare.

It was like playing a video game that had been re-skinned, Stiles thought wildly.  The buildings were identical, except for the multitude of broken windows.  The grounds had the same layout, but the lawns were overgrown and a drone hovered overhead.  And the same broad steps invited them into the library, but there were no bookshelves inside.  Instead, the room was filled with phones and desks and important-looking people with lined faces and exhausted-looking expressions discussing something that went entirely over Stiles’ head.

And then there was Satomi.

Stiles felt his eyes widen when he saw her.  He’d never really been able to reconcile Satomi's appearance with her age – the werewolf he knew radiated power, her movements lithe and her hands steady, always ready to spring into action. 

This version, however, was different.  Her hair was wispy and white, and a few strands pulled away in her hand as she habitually ran her fingers over her scalp.  Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken above protruding cheekbones, and her skin hung loose on her frame.  Stiles almost didn’t recognise her, until she fixed him with a knowing look that made him stumble, only Isaac’s grip on his upper arm stopping him from falling.

She immediately detached herself from her conversation and walked toward him, leaving a group of somewhat affronted-looking men to instead pin Stiles with a curious gaze.

“What’s your name, boy?” she asked. Her voice was brisk but not unkind – just falling short of a demand.

Stiles answered without thinking.  “Stiles,” he said, then grimaced when she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

Right. 

That probably wasn’t going to fly, here.  Not in this world of ultra-paranoid werewolves trying to fight for survival.

“Miecyslaw Stilinski,” he sighed, then quirked a smile at her surprised expression.  “Yeah, I know. There’s a reason everyone calls me Stiles.  It’s something my…”

Realising that Isaac was staring at him oddly, Stiles forced his mouth closed with a snap.  Thankfully, though, Satomi seemed satisfied with his explanation, as she nodded once before turning her attention to Isaac and Boyd.  

“Where did you find him?"

“He was camping out alone near Bright Street,” Isaac explained.  "Derek Hale knows him – he was trying to drag him back to the woods when we arrived.  He says he's here to help." His tone made it clear that he wasn’t convinced, but Satomi didn’t seem perturbed. 

“Thank you for bringing him in,” she said, pointedly.  “Are you planning to stay tonight?”

Both boys shook their heads, recognising the dismissal for what it was.  Isaac finally released Stiles’ arm, giving him an almost-friendly thump on the shoulder before stepping back.

“See you around,” he saluted.  He actually sounded genuine, so Stiles plastered something resembling a smile on his face and waved, wondering why he was suddenly feeling abandoned.

It must have shown on his face.  Concern flickered deep in Boyd’s eyes and he tiled his head, but before he could comment Isaac had grabbed his shoulder and started dragging him to the door.  So, in the end, he merely lifted a hand in reply and followed the other boy’s lead.

Stiles' heart thumped, nervously.  He forced his shoulders to relax and waited for Satomi to break the silence.

“Come,” Satomi said, on cue.   “Let’s walk.” 

One of the men nearby reached for her arm, but she side-stepped him easily and silenced him with a look.  Stiles dropped his gaze to the ground and did his best to ignore the half-a-dozen pairs of eyes boring through him as he hurried to catch up.

She walked briskly, oddly graceful despite her frail appearance, and soon enough she was pushing open the door to the main building of the school.  When she glanced at Stiles, her eyes were piercing as ever.  “Do you know the campus?” she asked.

Stiles hesitated.  He had spouted some nonsense to Isaac and Boyd about his ‘home in Atlanta’, but he had a feeling that wouldn't work here.

“Yes,” he said, cautiously.

She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring as she subtly studied his scent.  Then she gestured to the row of classrooms to her left.

“These have been converted into bedrooms.  It’s a little crowded – six people per room – but we make do.”  She led the way down the corridor and turned right, coming to a stop again and resting her hand on a door.  “You can use this one.”

Stiles scrunched his nose.  “Mr Harris’ classroom?  Sounds about right.”

Satomi raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead nodding to his backpack.  "You can leave that here, if you like."

Stiles' hand drifted toward the strap and he gripped it tightly as he shook his head.  "Maybe later," he mumbled. 

Thankfully, Satomi seemed to understand.  She merely nodded once more, then turned and resumed walking down the corridor.   

Stiles was pretty sure he knew where she was going.  The main building was divided into three sections: the classrooms, with locker-lined walls and rows of wooden doors, the cafeteria, and the gym.  There were no shortage of bathrooms, thank god, but the only showers were in the change rooms crammed behind the gym.  It didn’t take a genius to deduce how they would convert the campus to a makeshift camp.

Sure enough, Satomi took him on a brief tour of all three areas.  The cafeteria was virtually unchanged, the long tables and bench seats sitting where they always had, but the half-a-dozen ragged-looking people clustered together in the corner were unfamiliar.  So was the kitchen, when Satomi opened the door to show him the industrial sink and benchtops.

“We make bulk meals three times a day,” she explained, her voice haunted.  “There’s usually enough for everyone, but as a rule children eat first, just in case.  We don’t serve snacks – they’re distributed as rations on a weekly basis, and it’s up to the individual to make it last.”

Stiles frowned.  “I thought the government was sending in food?”

“They are.  But it’s barely enough, particularly with Peter claiming a larger share each week.”

Stiles stared from the werewolf to the empty benchtop then back again.  “I don’t understand.  Why are you letting him do that?”

He immediately regretted it.  Satomi’s eyes snapped to him, suddenly fiery and making her look a good twenty years younger.  “Do you think I have a choice?”

“No,” Stiles protested, shrinking backward until his hip slammed into a nearby bench.  “I didn’t mean that!  I’m just trying to understand.”

Satomi’s face softened, and she ran a shaky hand through her hair.  “Alright,” she sighed.  “You _are_ new around here, aren’t you?”

She fell silent, long enough that Stiles thought she was finished, but then she glanced back up at him with a discerning gaze.  “Peter and I have a difference of ideology,” she explained.  “I’m trying to work with the humans, to peacefully negotiate for our rights.”

“Whereas Peter just wants to fight back,” Stiles surmised.  “Makes sense.”

“Does it?” Satomi asked rhetorically, before carrying on as though he hadn’t spoken.  “This isn’t my first time in an internment camp, you know.  I’ve been doing what I can to keep everyone safe – which means that this camp is filled with people who need protection.  Children, invalids, elderly.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, the pieces falling into place.  “And Peter has all the soldiers?”

“Not _all_ of them,” Satomi corrected.  “But many, yes.  And the longer we’re trapped here, the more people are flocking to his side.”

“Because of course they are,” Stiles muttered.  He glanced once more at the kitchen, then raised a questioning palm.  “So this is your plan?  Keep your head down and hope you find a solution before Peter does?"

This time, Satomi’s glare was sharp, and it took all Stiles had not to shrivel inwardly under her gaze.  “Yes,” she replied, in a tone that brooked no argument.  “The alternative is a war that we can’t win.  Understood?”

Stiles hesitated, mouth half-open to argue.  There had to be a third option.  There was always a third option, even if it sucked ass most of the time 

But Satomi’s glare was borne of desperation rather than anger, and her shoulders were slumped with the weight of responsibility and centuries of wisdom, so he snapped his mouth shut and bowed his head in defeat.

Her heavy gaze lingered on him a moment longer, but finally she sighed and took a half-step back.  “We could use a hand in the kitchen,” she said, softly.  “Would you like to help?”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed immediately.

Satomi eyed him a moment longer, then allowed herself a small, genuine, smile before beckoning him onward.

In sharp contrast to the cafeteria, the gym was almost unrecognisable. Sofas and bean bags scattered around the area, a ping-pong table was set up at one end, and piles of board games were stacked in the far corner. 

“Entertainment is important,” Satomi commented, noticing Stiles’ surprise.  “People must have a reason to smile, even in the darkest of times.  This may well be the most important place in this town.”

“What’s over there?” Stiles asked, pointing to a roped-off area near the sports supply cupboard.

“Storage,” Satomi answered brusquely, before continuing the tour.

Unsurprisingly, the change rooms had been repurposed into both communal showers and a laundry room.  Stiles wrinkled his nose at the musty smell and didn’t linger.  If it irritated his nose this much, he could only imagine what it must be like for the werewolves.

Satomi pushed open the next door and led the way to the grassy outdoors.  There were clusters of people, here – some playing soccer with inhuman speed, some hanging up dripping wet clothes, others lounging in the shade afforded by a nearby cluster of trees.

“Do you recognise anyone?” Satomi asked, quietly.

Stiles shook his head.  He only knew a handful of local supernaturals, and none of them were here. 

“You’re not from here.”  Her voice was soft, only the slightest hint of a question in her tone.

Stiles started to nod, then shake his head, before finally settling for a shrug.  There was no point lying to her. “Sort of?” he offered.  “I’m from Beacon Hills.  Just not _this_ Beacon Hills.”

The werewolf’s brow knotted with confusion, then her eyes widened as realisation sank in.  She made a small noise of surprise.

Stiles braced himself for the inevitable questions.

He should have known that Satomi wouldn’t follow the rules.

There was no interrogation, just a soft sadness to her eyes and a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “I’ve heard rumours of this, but I always dismissed them as fantasy,” she admitted, sounding as though she had failed him personally.  “Do you have a way home?”

Stiles shook his head, and her expression fell. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.  “Ordinarily, I would do whatever I could to help, but right now…”  She trailed off, casting her gaze over the people dotting the field.  “We’re so close.  The public outcry over our situation is reaching fever-pitch, and the government is finally starting to listen.  It won’t be long before this nightmare ends and these people go free.”

“You’re busy,” Stiles interrupted.  He twisted his lips and stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to bury his frustration.  “I get it.”

Satomi paused, guilt and relief warring in her expression.  “If there is anything I can do…”

“I’ll let you know,” Stiles finished her sentence for her. 

“Do you have a place to start?”

Stiles thought of the books stashed in his backpack, remembered the feeling of heat spreading through his arms, the sound of thunder rolling across the sky, and he forced a grim smile.  “Yeah, I do.”


	12. Practice Makes Perfect

 

“And then – guess what happens?” 

Stiles wrapped the tea towel loosely around his hand and smirked.  “You tell me.”

“They go back in time!  See, it turns out that Hermione had a time-turner the entire year – and they use it to save Sirius!”

“Woah!” Stiles let his jaw drop in faux-astonishment.  It only partially worked – Jack bounced on his heels, beaming with excitement, but on the other side of the kitchen Bec laughed silently into her hands.

Stiles merely grinned in response.  It wasn’t like she had any room to talk - it was only that morning that Stiles had caught her and Jack role-playing superheroes, after all.  She was just as taken with the kid as everyone else.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles said, turning back to Jack in the hopes of diverting him before he managed to retell the entire book, “do you have the trays ready to go?  The stew will be done soon.”

“Yep!”  Jack chirped, before all-but-running over to the sink to retrieve them.   Stiles winced, a split second from telling him to slow down before he realised what he was thinking and closed his mouth with a snap. 

Jesus.  Three days, and this eight-year-old boy was already making his joints creak.

It wasn’t like he was going to fall, anyway.  The kid was insanely agile – and fast, Stiles remembered, rocking backward to avoid the metal tray suddenly thrust under his nose.  Perks of being a born werewolf.

Stiles grabbed the tray before it could smack right into him and returned Jack’s enthusiastic smile with a small one of his own.  Bec called him away before Stiles had a chance to thank him, so he instead set the tray on the benchtop and focussed on transferring the soup, one careful ladle at a time.

Jack carried the tray out front when he was done - and Stiles did his best to pretend he wasn’t relying on a literal child to do his heavy lifting - then stayed in the cafeteria to eat while Bec and Stiles busied themselves with the clean-up.

“You’re good with him,” Bec observed after a solid fifteen minutes of companionable silence.

Stiles glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  “I guess?”

She dipped her head, smiling slightly at his non-response.  Bec was older than him – late twenties, if he had to guess, although the way she pulled her dark hair into a bun made her look older again.  Still, she had kind eyes and a ready smile, and she’d welcomed Stiles’ help in the kitchen without so much as a questioning glance.  Compared to the reserved demeanour of most of the camp residents, she was a welcome flurry of good-natured humour and Stiles was eternally grateful for her friendship.

“Have you had much experience with kids?” she asked.

“Not really,” Stiles admitted as he dumped another pot in the soapy water.  “But, you know, it wasn’t _that_ long ago that I was his age.  And you’re never too old for Harry Potter.”

Bec snorted. “You’ve got me there.”  She paused mid-wipe, bowl still dripping in her hand, and bit her lip as she studied his profile.  “Are you going to practice again this afternoon?”

Stiles froze. 

Satomi had told him to keep the magic side of things a secret.  _Even amongst our people, magic is often feared_ , she had warned, handing back one of the books after a curious flick through.  _With tensions running as high as they are, there’s no telling what might happen._

And Stiles _had_ intended to follow her advice, but in true Stilinski fashion it had lasted all of thirty-six hours – right up until Bec walked in on him sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed and book open before him.  By the time he realised she was there, she had already grabbed it and started skimming the page.

He got lucky.  As it turned out, her aunt had dabbled in magic during her childhood, so although she frowned and warned him to be careful, she also swore to keep his secret – albeit, with a somewhat unnecessary amount of finger-crossing and eye-rolling.

“Yes,” Stiles answered, cautiously. 

Bec’s lips twisted anxiously, a small crease appearing in her forehead.  “Are you doing it here?”

He had been planning to find an empty classroom to practice in, but, judging by her tone, he was better off keeping that to himself.  “No?”

Ah, there was the trademark eye-roll.  Bec snapped her towel at him, shaking her head witheringly, before finally returning her attention the bowl.  “Better to stay away from people,” she advised.  “Do it off campus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles saluted, then chuckled when she stiffened in mock-horror.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned.

Stiles drew a finger across his heart, then turned back to work with a grin.

* * *

_Tick.  Tick.  Tick._  

Lydia couldn’t sleep.

It was two in the morning, according to the expensive crystal-set clock that lived on her dresser.  It didn’t match the rest of her furniture, its bulkiness at odds with her sleeker tastes, but it had been a gift from Jackson on their 6-month anniversary, back before werewolves and kanimas tore them apart, back when he still looked at her like she hung the moon, and she didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.

_Tick.  Tick.  Tick._

The sound made her skin crawl.  Her hands crept to her head and clenched involuntary, tugging handfuls of her hair.  She felt a sharp sting arc down her scalp and flinched, biting down on her tongue to stop from crying out. 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

“Gah!” Tossing back the covers, Lydia threw herself out of bed and crossed the room in two steps, grabbing the clock in one hand and the knob of her dresser drawer in the other.  She wrenched it open and threw the clock inside, slamming it shut without bothering to check if it would fit.  Her chest heaved and she stumbled backward, cramming her hands over her hears and screwing her eyes shut as though that would somehow help block out the sound. 

“Shut up, shut up, shut _up!_ ”

Her voice cracked, a sob choking her throat.  Tears tracked down her face and, when her legs trembled, she sank to the floor rather than wait for them to give out.

It was too much.  Everything was too much.

God - what had happened to her?  She never used to be like this.  When her parents divorced, she stuck her chin in the air and handled it with grace.  When her childhood best friend turned on her, she never once showed her hurt in public.  When Jackson dumped her…well, maybe she hadn’t handled that quite as well as she would have liked.  But she still _handled_ it, right?  That was what she did.  She picked up the pieces, put on her makeup, arranged her hair, and forced herself to act like the person she wanted to be until it felt real. 

Or, real enough, anyway.

Now though…she slumped backwards, her head bumping against the dresser behind her, and tilted her face to the ceiling.  She could still hear the faint _tick_ _tick_ of the clock, but it was more bearable now, muffled behind the wood, and she let her hands slide from her ears to land limply by her side.

If only Peter had another suggestion, maybe she wouldn’t be falling apart in her bedroom at whatever godawful hour it was now.  But the werewolf had been less than helpful.

_You’re not trying hard enough_ , the man had said, frowning at her with flint-hard eyes.  _You’re barely scratching the surface._

_I’m doing the best I can!_ Lydia had retorted through gritted teeth, and for once she was grateful for Scott’s newfound aggression as the werewolf pushed in front of her and growled at Peter until the older man backed off.

It didn’t matter, though.  Peter didn’t have any other ideas, which meant they were right back where they started.

Or, rather, they needed Lydia figured this out, or Stiles was gone.

No pressure.

“What does that even mean?” Lydia muttered, now, to the silence of her bedroom.  She shifted on the floor, uncomfortably aware of the drawer handles poking into her back but too wound up to move.  “What am I supposed to do?”

For a wild moment, she wished that Stiles was there to help.  He never pretended to understand her powers in the slightest, but that never slowed him down.  Keys, drawings, bullet shells, psycho pseudo-scientists: Stiles had been there for it all, endlessly enthusiastic in his pursuit to help her achieve control, keeping her anchored when she needed it the most.

“How am I supposed to do this without you?”

Her question was left unanswered.  She sighed, blinking away the last of the moisture from her eyes, letting her gaze fall to the carpet beneath her.

There was a white edge of a photograph peeking out from beneath the dresser.  Frowning, Lydia slid a few inches to the left and reached over, easing it out with the pads of her fingers.  The picture was face-down, so she flipped it over and felt her breath catch.

She’d forgotten about this photo.

It was Danny who had given it to her, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack and his weight shifting nervously as he waited for her reaction.  “I don’t want to you think I’m being creepy,” he had explained, his usual quiet confidence fleeing him for once.  “I was just taking photos for the yearbook, and I saw you guys there, and…well.  I thought you might like it.  I’ll delete the original, so there’s no other copies out there, you know?”

She had brushed off his apologies, determinedly ignoring the heat racing into her cheeks, and clutched the photo a little too tightly.  Her heart had been pounding with a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something else that she couldn’t quite name, and as soon as she arrived home she tossed the picture on her desk and didn’t even notice when it disappeared.

Now, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

It was a rare photo of her and Stiles, sitting together at the Pack’s usual outdoor table.  The others hadn’t arrived yet, but they still nestled close together at one end of the bench, soaking in the weak Autumn sunlight.  Stiles was laughing, his warm eyes alight with fun.  He was turned toward her, his knees touching her skirt, one arm disappearing beside her back.  And Lydia was leaning into him, her green eyes soft as she met his gaze, her hair falling in messy locks around her face, her hand resting carelessly on the other boy’s knee.

It only took one glance to realise why Danny hadn’t published it.  There was something intensely private about the moment: the two of them in their own little world, Stiles for once allowing himself to let go of the burdens he insisted on carrying, Lydia more at ease than she ever remembered being.

“Stiles.”  The whisper fell from her lips in a breath, and she traced the outline of his face with one gentle finger.  “Stiles.”

She closed her eyes, pressing the photo her chest, and tried to slow her breathing, just like he had tried to teach her so many times before.  _Just focus, Lydia._ She could almost hear his voice, brisk but encouraging, unsure but unfazed in equal measure.  _What do you feel?_

What did she feel?

Carefully, she reconstructed the photo in the darkness of her mind’s eye.  His hair, sticking up in all directions, his eyes, bright with laughter, his fingers caught mid-stroke as they tapped an incessant rhythm on his thigh.

What did she feel?

He was…not dead.  She wasn’t sure of much, but she knew that with a certainty that went far beyond logic.

Was he alive?  That was less clear.  She strained her mind, reaching for him, but all she could find was a thick fog, an impenetrable wall blocking her at every turn.

Tears stung her eyes.  She took a shuddering breath, tightening her grip on the photo, and made to open her eyes when Peter’s voice pulled her up short.

_Stop holding back._

Well…maybe.  Gritting her teeth, Lydia focussed once more on the photo in her hand, trying to remember the moment – but there were too many clouding the picture.  Too many times that Stiles had made her laugh, when she felt that odd warmth that made her giddy, the familiar heat in her cheeks when she caught him watching her with that heavy gaze.

The fog was as thick as ever, but she thought she felt a give, somewhere to her right.  In a flash, she turned her attention to that direction, pushing against the mental wall with all her strength.

“Lydia, get up, okay? You’re going to dance with me.”

His voice floated through her mind, crystal clear, and her heart sped up, and she pushed harder.

“But you know how I’ll feel?  I’ll be devastated.”

The wall bent a little further, the memories coming thick and fast, his voice and hers spooling over each other in a cacophony of warmth.

“You’re the one who always figures it out.  So, you can do it.”

“You’ve been right every time something like this has happened, okay? So, don’t go doubting yourself now.”

“Stiles saved me.”

The give was turning into a defect now, eroding faster and faster.

“When I kissed you…you held your breath.”

And then it was gone.

* * *

His chest was on fire. 

Flames licked the inside of his ribs, burned at his neck, spilled over his collarbones and tracked lines down his arms.  It flowed over his wrists, tickled his palms, and simmered beneath his fingers.

He paused, taking in the sensation.  It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it prickled in a way that made him restless, a pressure beneath his skin, searching for an escape.  It was almost familiar, bringing back memories of his six-year-old body bouncing off the walls, all motor mouth and flailing limbs, powered by an energy he couldn’t control.

He ended up on medication to control it then.

He desperately hoped he could control it now.

He took a deep breath, as slow as he could manage, and turned up the heat.  Millimetre by millimetre, degree by degree, clinging tightly to every last portion of self-control.  He could feel the flames burning hotter, the prickling feeling intensifying, and now it wasn’t so much pressure as a _need_ to let it escape, to let the energy flow out from him.

This was where it got tricky.

Biting his lip, he stretched his hands out in front of him, palms facing outward.  They looked the same as they ever did, but he could feel it: the power concentrating beneath the skin, pressing at him from the inside, fighting against his iron grip.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he loosened it.

A blast of pure energy burst from his hands.  The air pulsed, a front of wind pushing outward, kicking up leaves and dust in its wake.  There was a small bush a few feet away and it groaned loudly as it wavered, struggling to hold itself together, until finally the stem burst with a loud _crack._

Stiles yelped, jolting backward.  He was faintly aware of the flames fizzling out as he stared, transfixed, at the destroyed plant.  It had snapped clean in two, the top half lying bedraggled on the ground while the lower half ended in a jagged mess of broken bark, a monument pointing to the sky above.

Holy shit.

Holy _shit._

He had done that.  He had just destroyed the bush _with his mind._

“Holy crap, I’m a Jedi,” he whispered, awed.

A Jedi who was about to pass out, he realised abruptly.  A wave of dizziness crashed over him and he swayed, suddenly aware of his shaking limbs and drooping eyes.  Fuck, he was _exhausted._   He reached blindly behind him until he found a nearby tree and leaned back onto it, but despite his fatigue he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the destroyed bush.

He had accepted a lot of crazy stuff in the last few weeks.  Fairies, alternate realities, magic…but, _still._ The cynical part of him had still been half-expecting all this to be some sort of elaborate hoax.   Hell, there was a part of him that wondered if he was just going crazy, if this whole alternate-reality magical-potential energy-bending thing wasn’t just some crazy nightmare cooked up by his brain as it recovered from whatever that bloody fairy had whammied him with. 

Well.  That could still technically be true, he supposed.  But looking at the destroyed bush, the tangible proof that he was capable of something more than he thought…it was getting much harder to deny. 

The book, it turned out, was a gold mine.  That musty old tome with the old English spelling and the cramped writing was more manual than textbook - a step-by-step cookbook on how to unlock Potential.  If Deaton was there. Stiles could have kissed him. 

But Deaton wasn’t there.  Stiles sighed, sagging against the tree and letting his gaze drift to the sky, fighting off a pang of loneliness.  He used to be better at this, back before all this werewolf stuff, when it was just him and Scott. 

Now…he just missed them.  All of them.  He had run into Jackson yesterday, but the other boy had shouldered past him without a second thought, completely ignoring his greeting.  Which, granted, was more or less consistent with the Jackson he remembered, but then Isaac had followed with nothing more than a polite smile and dismissive wave.

It stung more than he thought it would.

A rustling noise yanked him out of his ruminations and Stiles jerked upright, whipping his head to his left.  Someone – or something – was moving amongst the nearby trees, somewhere between him and the school. 

And it was drawing closer with inhuman speed.

Stiles’ breath caught.  There was no time to run – and where would he even go? – so he stiffened his legs and squared his shoulders, trying his best to appear more imposing than he really was.  With any luck, they would just run straight past.

But, of course, that didn’t happen.  Within seconds, the rustling turned into footsteps, and the next thing he knew there was a body bursting out from the nearby brush.

Stiles’ jaw dropped.  “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Scott, to his credit, didn’t look at all annoyed by the less-than-friendly greeting.  He straightened, his dark eyes quickly grazing over the destroyed bush and disturbed leaf-litter before landing on Stiles himself.  Instantly, his expression changed to one of concern.

“I was looking for you.”  Surprisingly, his voice was coloured with worry and he half-raised his arm as he stepped closer, almost as though he wanted to touch Stiles’ shoulder before thinking better of it.  “Are you okay?" 

Stiles huffed.  He wanted to roll his eyes but he was still feeling a little giddy, so he settled for crossing his arms across his chest and leaning oh-so-casually against the nearest tree.  “Wow.”

Hurt flickered across Scott’s face, and Stiles stifled a ripple of guilt.  _This isn’t Scott_ , he reminded himself, sternly.  _This guy tried to keep you prisoner._

_(This guy changed his mind_ , that treasonous voice pointed out from a dark corner of his mind. Stiles did his best to ignore it.)

The silence stretched awkwardly between them.  Scott flushed, then stared at his feet, then at a point somewhere over Stiles’ shoulder.  Then, finally, he blew the air out through his cheeks and met Stiles’ gaze with a guilty one of his own.  “I’m sorry,” he said, earnestly.  “I really am.  I shouldn’t have done…what I did.”

“Yeah, you really shouldn’t have,” Stiles agreed.  He tried to maintain his glare, but his anger was fading quickly, unsustainable in the face of Scott’s remorse, so after a few seconds he gave up.  “But, I get it,” he sighed.  “This place is fucked.”

“You’re telling me.”

Stiles snorted, then frowned.  Scott was still tense, his shoulders hunched, his eyes darting around the clearing every few seconds, on guard for god-knows-what.  “You didn’t come all this way to apologise to me,” he guessed, narrowing his eyes.  “Why are you here?”

Scott hesitated, then gestured back toward the school.  “I just came from there.  I didn’t realise…there are so many people in there.  Kids, elderly…and, sure, they’ve got a place to sleep, and they’ve got Satomi, but they’re still scared.”

Stiles nodded, slowly.   It was impossible to miss the thick atmosphere of fear that hovered over the campus.  People clustered together in small groups, sticking close to the people they knew before they ended up here, casting wary glances at everyone else.  It wasn’t a community so much as an island, a refuge for people who didn’t want to be there but had nowhere else to go.

Scott’s brow knotted as he continued.  “I guess I knew that, but I didn’t _know_ it, you know?  Derek insisted that staying away was the safest thing to do, and he’s probably right, but I’m starting to realise that the safe may not always be best.  Maybe I could have made a difference, if I’d have been here.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows.  “Someone’s done a lot of soul-searching in three days.”

“I guess so,” Scott agreed, sincerely, leaving Stiles to wonder if he had completely missed the sarcasm or was just ignoring it.  “Well, it’s been brewing for a while, really.  I have friends in town who’ve been trying to get me to join them, and it never really felt right to tell them no.  But leaving would have been worse –a betrayal of everything Derek’s done for me.” 

“So, what changed?”

Scott looked up sharply.  “You,” he said, as though it was obvious. “You called me on my shit, and then you _left_.  It made it pretty difficult to say that I didn’t have a choice when you just walked away.”

That made sense, Stiles supposed, but then again – “I’m not Derek’s beta, though,” he pointed out, carefully.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’re acting like yourself for once, but I know that makes a difference to you wolfy types.”

Scott shrugged, trying to appear indifferent and failing miserably.  Stiles winced, tendrils of guilt rising in this throat. 

Shit.  Maybe had misread the whole situation.  He opened his mouth to apologise, to tell Scott to go back, but before he could speak Scott cut him off, changing the subject with an unnaturally chipper tone that left no room for discussion.

“Anyway, what have you been doing since you left?  And why does it look like a miniature bomb went off out here?”

“Um.”   Stiles stared blankly between destroyed bush and Scott’s curious – although thankfully not suspicious – expression.  Was he supposed to have an answer for that?

He still searching for an excuse when his skin prickled.  He straightened, his senses suddenly on high alert, and jerked his head to the left.

“Stiles?”  Scott’s voice was low, confused, and Stiles flapped a dismissive hand in his direction and shushed him.

There was something there, just out of reach.  He couldn’t see it, but somehow he could feel it, and odd _presence_ hidden behind an impenetrable wall of air.

An incredibly familiar presence.

Stiles gaped and lurched forward, but the presence remained frustratingly out of reach.  “Lydia?” he whispered, not daring to hope he was right.

For an instant, the presence grew stronger.

Then the world exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: when I started this fic, I was not intending to go 11 full chapters before Stiles finally tried to use magic. And yet here we are. Thanks to everyone who's still here for the ride - I hope you've enjoyed it so far! xx


	13. When The Going Gets Tough

 

The explosion came from the school. 

The ground lurched beneath Stiles’ feet and he grabbed a nearby tree for balance.  His ears rang, his limbs quivering in the aftershocks, and he felt his neck crack as he whirled toward the noise.

“Scotty?” he croaked, once he registered that the other boy was still there.  Scott was kneeling to his right, hands clamped over his ears while thick blood trickled between his fingers.  His brow scrunched in pain, and his eyes glowed yellow as he stared in the direction of the source.  Stiles’ voice broke through his shock, though, and he glanced at the other boy before pushing himself to his feet and allowing the shift to fully transform his face.   

“Stiles, go,” Scott ordered, his body coiled like a spring, ready to leap toward the fight.

Stiles hesitated.

He really should go.  Turn tail and run, save himself while he still could, etcetera.  It was the logical choice, the strategic move.  Get the breakable human away from the carnage and let the superhumans do the work.

But, no.

Who was he kidding?  They left logic behind years ago.

Scott was still standing in place, clearly not trusting Stiles to do as he was told.  Stiles drew a deep breath, rubbed a shaky hand against his forehead, then nodded grimly.  “Let’s go,” he said curtly, then started half-running toward the school.   

“Stiles, wait –”

Scott caught up to him two long strides and reached out to grab his shoulder, but Stiles twisted out of the way.  He only paused long enough to throw a steely glance at Scott before pressing onward. 

“I’m not going to do anything stupid, Scott, okay?  But I’m not leaving either.” The trees were already thinning, faint screams filtering through the trunks, and Stiles picked up the pace.  “Just stay close.”

The tree line was only a few yards away, now, so within seconds they burst into the open and immediately pulled to a halt, eyes widening in horror.

The gym was ablaze.  One section of wall had been completely destroyed, with bricks and concrete and smouldering wood littering the nearby grass.  Smoke billowed out the newly-made gap while tongues of flame licked at the edges and through every window that Stiles could see.  Silhouettes were everywhere – vague outlines of people running, hobbling, lifting each other – and beneath the heavy cloud of ash he could just make out the shadows of people lying prone on the grass, bodies illuminated by the growing fire. 

Worst of all was the noise.  Guttural, heart-wrenching screams nearly drowned out by the cracking of exploding windows, the harsh rumble of fire, the heavy thuds of falling beams.   

Stiles’ breath caught.  He froze, unable to process the scene before him.

Scott recovered first.  The werewolf grabbed hold of him, shaking his shoulder roughly.  “Stiles!” the werewolf called, his previous misgivings drowned out by urgency, his gaze darting between Stiles and the gym.  “We need to get them out.”

The words broke the spell, and suddenly Stiles could move again.  He shook off the shock, set his jaw, then broke into a run.

The first person he found was crouched on the grass twenty yards from the building.  Stiles skidded to a stop, dropping to his knees and reached out, peripherally aware of Scott racing on toward the gym.  “Come on,” he yelled, grabbing the man’s shoulder tightly.  “We need to go!”

The man twisted to look at him, his mouth twisted into a grimace of pain.  “My leg,” he hissed, smacking his left thigh with his hand.  “I think it’s broken.”

Stiles hesitated, his eyes darting toward the offending limb.  Sure enough, the man’s ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle, his shin facing the ground while his foot splayed out sideways.

Still… “It’ll be more than broken if you don’t move,” Stiles snapped, voice harsher than he intended.  There was no time for sympathy. 

He didn’t bother waiting for a reply.  He grabbed the man’s closest arm and dragged it over his shoulder, then wrapped his other arm around the man’s back.  “Let’s go,” he grunted.  With a monumental effort, he planted his feet on the ground and _pushed_ , heaving both of them upright.   

Somehow, they made it on the first attempt, although Stiles staggered slightly beneath the man’s weight.  Where to from here, though?  Stiles faltered, glancing at his surroundings.  Ash was falling thick and fast from the sky, blacking out the sun, but he could make out the outline of a crowd gathered in the carpark.  More than likely it was survivors huddling for safety, too scared to come closer but too nervous to leave.

He pointed them out to the man, who pressed his weight onto Stiles and began to hobble in that direction.  The hundred yards seemed like a mile, their progress painfully slow, but, thankfully, someone spotted them and ran to meet them halfway. 

“Are you okay?” the newcomer asked, breathlessly.

Stiles didn’t bother replying.  “Here, take him,” he ordered, brusquely, almost tossing the man’s weight over to him in his haste.  “I’m going back in.”

One of them tried to protest but Stiles ignored them, spinning on his heel and sprinting back to the building.   His heart sank as he approached.  Even in the few short minutes that he had been gone, the fire had grown.  Flames were eating at the outer walls of the building, tossing ash into the air, making his eyes sting and his lungs burn, and he could barely get within fifty yards before hitting an impenetrable wall of intense heat.  He lifted his shirt over his nose as a makeshift mask, trying desperately to see through the smoke.

“Stiles!”  He jerked, turned to his right, stumbled another three steps toward the noise.  Finally, he saw her – crushed beneath a heavy wooden beam, one hand clawing uselessly at the dirt in front of her, sooty face the same colour as her hair.

“Bec!”  Stiles tried to call out to her, then doubled over in a coughing fit.  Still, he managed to close the distance at a half-crawl, half-run, before finally dropping to the ground by her side.  “Shit.”

For once, she didn’t have a snarky reply.  Her eyes were wide and terrified, locking desperately onto his gaze.  “Can you get me out?”

He tore his gaze away from her face to stare at the beam holding her still, his heart crashing into his boots.  It was a load-bearing structure, he realised immediately – several feet wide, eight feet long, and made from solid, thick, heavy wood.

There was no way in hell he could lift it.

Desperately, he pushed himself upright and glanced around the area.  His vision immediately blurred, his eyes stinging from the smoke, but it didn’t matter– there was no one else nearby.  And the carpark was entirely too far away.

Double shit.

He was out of options.

“Hold on,” he muttered, then pressed his hands carefully to the beam.

_Come on.  Come on._

The spark responded instantly.  It ignited, a tiny flame in his chest, utterly insignificant in comparison to the blaze nearby. 

_That’s it.  Work with me now._

It burned higher, sapping energy from his blood, making his limbs shake in protest.  Then it slowly spilled over into his shoulders, trickling down his arms to his hands.

He closed his eyes, trying to black out his surroundings and just focus on the sensation.  He poured everything he had into it, then drew on the surrounding heat and added that as well, building the flame higher and higher until it felt ready to burst from his palms.

Then he opened his eyes and _pushed._

The beam went flying.  It soared up and backward into a cloud of ash, landing somewhere out of sight with a loud crash.  Stiles barely noticed, however, his awe quickly swamped by dread as the world tilted on its axis.  Black dots swam across his vision, something high-pitched whistled in his ears, and he fell forward.  His hands slammed into the dirt, his arms shaking as he struggled to hold his weight.

Holy crap.  He was going to pass out.

“Don’t you dare!” 

Huh.  Had he said that out loud?

A small hand grabbed his shoulder, tugging him desperately upward, and he raised his head just enough to see Bec’s wild eyes tearing into his own.  Her lips formed words – _Get up_ , he thought – but the sound was completely obscured by a loud crack from the nearby gym.

Oh yeah.  Fuck.

It was an effort, but Stiles pushed himself upward, first onto his knees and then his feet.  Bec steadied him with her right hand – her left, he realised suddenly, was tucked carefully into her chest – and as soon as he was carrying his own weight she propelled him forward, and then they were lurching away from the building, pulling and prodding each other until finally – _finally_ – the carpark came into sight.

He stopped abruptly, still a good twenty yards away.  Bec halted beside him, reaching with one hand to push him along, but he dodged her and took a quick step to the side. 

“Go on,” he said, hoarsely, waving a hand toward the survivors.  “You’re hurt.  I’m going back.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head minutely.  “Don’t.  It’s too late.”

“I’ll be quick,” Stiles promised, and then he turned on his heel before she could protest any further.

If he thought the blaze was out of control before, it was nothing compared to now.  He could barely see the fire itself – just the faint impression of orange and red behind a thick wall of smoke.  And the heat was intense – his cheeks stung from it, even from this distance – but it didn’t matter.

He had to try.

His lungs burned with each breath and his limbs were too weak to run, so he dragged his T-shirt over his nose and kept his distance, peering through the smoke to try to spot anyone who might have been missed in the chaos.

He was halfway along the building’s length when his foot kicked something soft.

He squinted into the darkness and just made out the dark outline of a person – a woman – lying face-down on the grass.

“Hey!” Stiles rasped, voice barely audible against the crackle of the fire.  He crouched down, shaking the woman by her shoulders.

There was no reply.

Sweat poured off him, soaking his hands and making it difficult to form a decent grip, but he tightened one hand around her shoulder and another around her hip and managed to roll her onto her side.

Then he lurched backward in horror. 

The woman’s face was gone.  Her skin was bubbling, melting over her eyes and around her nose, leaving craters of blackened tissue in its wake.  Her torso flopped onto the ground as she slipped out of his grip, her mangled arms dangling uselessly by her side. 

Bile rose in Stiles’ throat.  He scrambled backward, crab-like on his hands and feet, panic driving his movements, until a moment later he bumped into something else.

_Oh god no. Not again, not again –_

His neck whipped around before he could stop it, his mind already cringing at the thought of what he would find. 

It was a child.

A little girl, to be precise.  She was wearing a pink cotton skirt, now marred with ash and scorch marks.  Her hair was pulled into pigtails, and Stiles couldn’t tell the colour beneath the thick layer of soot coating her head.  But her face was intact, her eyes closed above a perfect button-nose, and her breaths came in harsh wheezes between her parted lips. 

Her breaths.

_She’s breathing._

Stiles reacted before he could think.  He flipped himself over, resting his weight on his knees as he slipped his arms beneath the girl, cradling her close to his chest.  Then he was up, running faster than he had ever run before, his weakness momentarily forgotten as he beelined for the carpark, finding his way by memory more than sight as the day grew darker and darker.

He only realised he had arrived when he stumbled into the crowd, feeling a set of hands grab his torso to steady him.  Someone else was slipping strong arms beneath the little girl, trying to tug her from his grip.

He tightened his fingers, pulling her closer.  His mind was a cacophony of half-formed thoughts and he couldn’t figure out what he needed to do – but he couldn’t let her go.

Whoever it was leaned forward to lock brown eyes onto Stiles’ own.  “You did good,” they said, speaking slowly and clearly.  “But I can take it from here.”

The words didn’t make sense, but Stiles’ body responded anyway, loosening his grip.

“Thank you,” the other person said, and that was that.  They pulled the girl out of his arms, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Stiles watched them go, the cloud slowly dissipating from his mind, then turned back to face the fire.  The gym was all but gone, invisible beneath the smoke and ash and flame, and he could no longer see anyone trying to escape from the building.  Anyone who was going to make it was already out.

“Look! They’re coming!”

Murmurs spread through the crowd, a hint of excitement rippling by him like a wave.  Stiles glanced around in confusion, only to find the majority of people slumping with relief, faces upturned toward the sky.  He followed their gaze, squinting against his still-stinging eyes, trying to make out what they –

– and then he saw it.  Three drones, several streets away, hovering upwind of the fire.  And, to the south, two red helicopters racing directly toward the school, dragging beneath them gallons upon gallons of water.

They were coming.

Help was coming.

He released a breath he didn’t have, almost smiling for a moment before becoming overcome with yet another coughing fit.  The world spun as he gasped and choked for an interminably long second, and by the time he could breathe again the first container of water had been dumped over the blaze and the second was on its way.

To his left, someone was barking orders, trying to arrange the crowd into some semblance of order.  Stiles recognised him, though he didn’t know his name – he was one of the men in the library that first day, talking to Satomi then staring at Stiles when he arrived.

Most of the other survivors seemed to know him, though, or at least respect him – or maybe it was just something about his voice.  Whatever it was, they listened, quieting down, dividing themselves, following instructions as they were given.  Even Bec – and Jack, Stiles realised with a wave of relief, seeing the tiny boy clinging to the waist of an older lady – were listening closely, and as he watched they both turned and headed to the far corner, where the children and those with minor injuries were supposed to assemble.

That was good.

They were going to be okay.

Except.  That wasn’t quite true.

Stiles squinted, scanning the crowd carefully, hoping his tearful eyes were just playing tricks on him – but the longer he looked, the harder his heart clenched in his chest. 

“Scott?” he said aloud, trying to find his friend amongst the sea of faces.  “Scotty?”

There was no familiar mop of hair, no square shoulders or olive skin, and he spun in a circle, eyes tearing wildly over the sea of faces, the carpark, the woods, the – _there._

Next to the fire, barely visible behind a curtain of ash, was a figure.  A person, blackened by soot, slowly hobbling toward the crowd.  As Stiles watched, they staggered sideways and fell, landing hard onto one knee. 

Stiles was moving before he realised what he was doing.  He darted forward, running as fast as his shaky limbs would allow, and seconds later he skidded to a stop in front of an instantly-recognisable figure gasping for breath on the charred ground.

Scott looked beat.  He was covered in soot from head to toe, his eyes flickering between gold and brown.  He was half-shifted, claws visible on his hands but his forehead smooth, and blood leaked slowly from an open wound on his thigh.

“Scotty?” Stiles asked, uncertainly.  His voice came out in a harsh rasp, the word thin and wavering from his abused throat.

Scott’s head darted upward, his eyes wide in surprise, clearly not realising that Stiles was there until he spoke. 

Not wanting to waste any more time, Stiles crouched down, pressing himself to Scott’s side in the same way that he had for the man earlier.  The werewolf was hotter than he had any right to be, his clothes singed and his skin shiny red through the tears in his shirt, and Stiles knew beyond a doubt that his friend had been leading his own search-and-rescue a little closer to the fire than Stiles had dared to go. 

But now it was time to go.  There was no one left to save, except for the injured survivors being cared for in the parking lot, so Stiles wrapped Scott’s arm over his shoulder and pulled the other boy to his feet, leading the way back to the crowd, one wavering step at a time.

They were still a way away when he noticed him.  A pale shadow hidden just inside the tree line, leaning against a trunk with an almost perverse degree of nonchalance.  His blue eyes shone as he tracked their movements, one corner of his mouth pulled up in satisfaction.

Stiles halted abruptly, nostrils flaring as he glared at the figure with a white-hot gaze.

Peter smirked in response, and then turned and melted into the shadows.


	14. Count Bodies Like Sheep

 

Stiles woke in an unfamiliar room. 

He blinked groggily, taking in the strange wallpaper and the fan standing still on the ceiling, then closed his eyes again with a sigh.

God, not again.

He missed his bedroom.  He missed his musty sheets, which he never really washed as often as he should.  He missed his pillow, which he refused to throw out even though it became lumpier every year, because he never slept as well without it.  He missed the blue walls, the way the light streamed in on his face every morning, the way he left so many books cluttered on his desk that he always had to move them to do any work.

He was getting kind of fed up with constantly waking somewhere new.

For a moment, he considered just going back to sleep.  Maybe next time he opened his eyes, he would be back in his own bed.   Or at the Hale house.  Or the school.

…the school.

His eyes flew open again and he jerked upright with a gasp, the events from the night before crashing back into his memory.  The fire had eventually reduced to a controlled smoulder, but the work hadn’t stopped there.  It had taken hours to relocate the injured to the nearby elementary school, and then there had been wounds to bandage, children to comfort, and belongings to sort out before an older man with an authoritarian stare had ordered both him and Scott to leave. 

“You’ve done enough,” he had said, his tone stern despite the gentle words.  “Go.  Wash up.  Rest.”

Stiles had made to protest, but Scott grasped his elbow warningly.  “Yessir,” the werewolf replied, ducking his head in deference before steering Stiles away.

“Scott, no.  I don’t need to stop,” Stiles protested.  Somewhere along the line, his exhaustion had faded to a dull throb, his mind completely narrowed to a single-minded directive to _just_ _keep going_.

But Scott shook his head.  “I know how much smoke you inhaled.   If we were anywhere but here, you’d be in hospital right now, tied down to an oxygen tank while your lungs recovered.” 

“I’m _fine._ ”

“You’re really not.”

Stiles glared half-heartedly.  Truth be told, Scott had a point.  Sharp pains arced through his chest with every breath, and if he moved too quickly he would dissolve into a coughing fit.  But, still… 

“There’s too much to be done,” Stiles countered, looking pointedly from Scott to the chaotic pseudo-medical bay behind him.

Scott’s forehead creased with guilt.  “I know,” he admitted.  “But I’m exhausted, my leg is killing me, and I’m starting to make mistakes.  There are people here who missed the fire altogether – enough people.  They can get by without us.”

The words were sensible, logical, and Stiles looked at Scott – _really_ looked – for the first time since the fire. 

He looked awful.  The teenager had aged a decade in a night, his face haggard with exhaustion.  His eyes were red, whether from the smoke or the fatigue or the grief, Stiles couldn’t tell.  His burns were a horrible shiny pink, pale compared to the crimson stain on his bandage.  And beneath the sweaty sheen, his skin was sickly pale.

Stiles swayed.  He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but he doubted he looked any better.

The last of his resolve crumbled, and he sighed.  “Yeah, alright.  But…where would we even go?  I don’t think I can make it back to the Hale house – not like this.”

To his surprise, Scott’s lips curved into a small smile.  “I know a place.”

And that was how he ended up here.  Scott had led him to this house, not far from the school, and although the exterior was uncomfortably familiar, Stiles couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.  It was empty when they arrived, but Scott merely unlatched the door and lead the way inside.  He pointed out the bathroom, shoved a set of clean clothes into Stiles’ arms, and once they were both ash-free Scott had more-or-less poured Stiles into bed and left him to it.

Stiles had been asleep before Scott even left the room.

_So that’s one mystery down,_ Stiles thought, shaking his head slightly to free himself from the memory.  _But where am I?_

He was on a large bed – queen-size, surely – and the sheets were ridiculously luxurious compared to what he had at the school.  The walls were bare save for an expensive-looking painting next to the window, and there was a floor-to-ceiling mirror embedded in the cupboard door directly in the front of the bed.

If it weren’t for the dust littering every surface and the lived-in smell to the linen, it could have been pulled straight from a magazine.

“Stiles Stilinski in the guest room with the candlestick,” Stiles muttered to himself, before giggling slightly. 

Yeah, he definitely inhaled too much smoke.

He drew an experimental deep breath, wincing at the familiar stab of pain.  His lungs were still a little tight, but they were certainly improved from yesterday – thank god for small mercies.  He doubted he’d be able to run very far, but he could probably make it across the room without too much trouble.

He rolled out of bed with a groan, then padded over to the door.  The room must have been soundproofed, because as soon as he opened it, he could hear voices from a few rooms away.

And, well.  There was a signpost if he ever needed one.

He swallowed, pulling a face as the motion scraped his throat, then turned left and walked softly toward the noise.  He was in a short corridor, so it only took a few short steps for him to reach the end, which opened out to a small living room.  Likely not the main one, he surmised – the thick carpet, baby-grand piano and leather couches that were probably once white but were now a greyish-brown were more consistent with a formal sitting area than anything else.

Who the hell had a sitting area in this century?

Shaking his head, Stiles shoved the thought to the back of his mind.   Money was the least of his concerns right now – well, actually, _there_ was a silver lining, he supposed.  If he never made it back home, his dad would have one less mouth to feed. 

God, he was becoming morbid in his old age.

At the far end of the room was a second door, not doubt leading to the main living area.  Stiles crossed the room to hover uncertainly beside it, deliberately ignoring the temptation to find the front door and flee.  Where had Scott brought him?

His hand was half-raised, sitting hesitantly an inch away from the handle, when the choice was made for him.  The door slid open, revealing an uncharacteristically ruffled-looking Isaac. 

The boy’s curly hair was standing on end as though run through too many times by nervous fingers, his lips were downturned in a tight frown, and dark bags emphasised his eyes. But he still managed to cock one eyebrow in disdain as he stared Stiles down.  “Are you going to stand there all day?”

Stiles puffed out his cheeks.  “Thinking about it.”

That earned him an exasperated glare, but Isaac forwent a snarky reply in favour of standing to one side and impatiently waving him in.  “Hurry it up, then.”

Biting back his kneejerk response, Stiles cautiously stepped over the threshold.  He found himself in a stylish kitchen, separated from the open-plan dining and living area by a waist-high bench.  And there, leaning against the countertop, stood Scott, Jackson and Boyd.

Scott was the first to react, stepping forward with a tired grin.  “Hey.  Feeling any better?”

“Sure,” Stiles half-shrugged, looking past him to the others.

It took less than a second for him to realise that something was wrong.  Trepidation tightened his chest as Boyd stared fixedly at a point somewhere above Stiles’ head, his shoulders tensed around his neck, while Jackson watched Stiles with a narrowed, suspicious gaze.  

Stiles leaned into Scott, speaking in a stage-whisper.  “Why are they staring at me like that?”

The werewolf at least had the decency to look awkward.  “I, uh…might have told them the truth about you?  I’m sorry!” he added, when Stiles gawked at him in disbelief.  “I didn’t realise you’d already said something else.”

Stiles scrunched his eyes shut and rubbed his fist against his temple.  “Jesus, Scott,” he muttered.

Of course, being in a room full of werewolves meant that everyone heard him loud and clear, which became immediately obvious when Isaac slammed the door shut and pinned Stiles with a glare.

“It’s not his fault you lied,” he pointed out, somewhat aggressively.  “Although if you ask me, he’s the one who got lied to.”

Stiles huffed, levelling a dramatic finger in his direction.  “See?  That, right there.  That’s why I lied.  I knew you guys would never believe me.”

“Because you know us?”  The question came from Boyd, whose tone was less accusatory than Isaac but still very cautious.  Stiles could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes, trying to figure out how the puzzle pieces fit together. 

Stiles nodded, and Boyd followed the thread to the next logical question.  “But you told Scott and Derek.  Why?”

“Because Scott’s too trusting for his own good,” Stiles answered promptly, ignoring the offended ‘Hey!’ from the boy in question.  “I knew he would hear me out.  Plus, I’ve known Scott forever, so I figured I knew enough details about his life to convince him.  And Derek…was there, mostly.  I wouldn’t have tried to convince his stubborn ass otherwise."

Boyd hmmed, considering, while Isaac suddenly seemed a little uncertain.

“Wait, Derek knows about this?” he asked Scott, who nodded.  “And he believes him?”

Scott nodded once more, looking progressively more insulted by the second.  “Why does that carry more weight than – ugh,” he whined.  “You know what, it actually doesn’t matter.  Stiles proved himself to both me and Derek.  I trust him, okay?”

Isaac hesitated but Boyd nodded, apparently convinced.  Jackson’s jaw worked, then he abruptly pushed himself away from the bench.

“None of this shit matters,” Jackson snapped, slamming his mug onto the counter and grabbing a jacket from a nearby stool.  “Satomi is trying to re-establish the camp at the elementary school.  I’m going to go help.  When you dickheads finish squabbling like children, you can come help the _actual_ children with me.” 

He paused just long enough to glare at the room in general before disappearing out the door, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Boyd sighed, placing his own mug onto the benchtop with significantly more care.  “He’s right,” he said to no one in particular.  “I’m going with him.” 

He traced Jackson’s route out the door, and Stiles’ heart clenched as he started to follow suit. He barely made it two steps before a strong hand grasped his upper arm, forcing him to stop.

It was Scott, and his dark eyes were soft as he frowned at Stiles and shook his head.  “You need to eat something first,” he said, and then he was tugging Stiles toward the table.  “We can go after.” 

“But –”

“No buts.  You look like crap.”

Stiles glared, frustrated.  He would have argued, but his lungs took that moment to spasm in a harsh coughing fit, and by the time he could speak again Scott had pushed him into a nearby chair and he figured his chance of winning had well and truly slipped between his fingers.

Isaac pressed a glass of water into his hands, looking surprisingly concerned.  “You still alive in there?”

Stiles didn’t have the breath for a witty retort, but luckily his fingers still worked.

Scott groaned, pushing Stiles’ hand back to his side before plopping onto the next seat.   “Yeah, you’re fine,” he drawled, sarcastically.  “Is there some history here I should know about?”

Stiles shrugged.  “Does this version also wear scarves in unseasonably hot weather?”

Isaac huffed while Scott turned an interesting shade of purple.  Stiles smirked and pretended not to notice, instead taking a sip of water.  Then he chugged the rest of the glass, not realising until that moment that he was absolutely parched.

Isaac nimbly slipped the glass from his hands when he was done, refilling it from a container before handing it back along with a plate of baked beans.  “Take it slower this time,” he warned.  “And line your stomach, or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Stiles nodded, already digging into the food.  His mouth was too full to talk, but hopefully Isaac would recognise his gratefulness from his expression – or chemosignals, or whatever.  When was the last time he had eaten?  He couldn’t even remember.

The other boy was right, though.  He forced himself to eat slowly, pausing between bites to allow the food to settle, trying to limit himself to sips rather than gulps.  The last thing he needed was to puke all over this disgustingly expensive-looking house.  Speaking of – “Where are we?” he asked, voice muffled through a mouthful of food.

Scott tilted his head in surprise.  “You don’t know?  It’s Jackson’s house.”

Because of course it was.  Stiles rolled his eyes, licking the sauce off his lips before replying.  “Yeah, my bromance with Jackson never really got to that level.”

“What level _was_ it at?” 

“Ah – he paralysed me, I kidnapped him, he took out a restraining order.  You know.”

Scott’s eyes widened.

“It’s fine, though,” Stiles hurried to reassure him.  “He moved to London after the whole kanima thing, so it’s kind of moot now.”

“Do you hear yourself talk?” Isaac asked, dryly.  “Or do you just enjoy dropping bombs?”

Stiles puffed his cheeks thoughtfully.  “Six of one?"

Isaac laughed, briefly, then glanced over at Scott.  “I'm starting to see why you like him," he announced.

Scott’s reply was cut off by the bang of the door sliding open.

“I heard the boys cooking earlier,” a female voice was saying.  “Hopefully they left some for us.”

Stiles’ head whipped toward the noise. He didn’t realise he was standing until he heard his plate clatter onto the floor, but he paid it no mind – he was completely focussed on the newcomers, his breath trapped in frozen lungs, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs. 

Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, framing an all-too-familiar face.  Her rounded cheeks were pale, her eyes darker than he remembered, and her hands were gentle as she guided Lydia to the table and settled her into a seat.  Then she glanced around the room, gaze skipping lightly over Isaac and Scott to land on him, and when she smiled her eyes sparked with warmth.

She stepped forward, extending a friendly hand in his direction.  “Hi,” she said, brightly.  “I’m Allison.”

Stiles’ throat worked, silently, and tears stung his eyes.

Allison’s smile faltered, and she glanced uncertainly from Stiles to Scott and back again.  “Um…is something wrong?”

The burn spread down Stiles’ legs, and finally he was able to move.  He stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight into his chest and not noticing or caring about the boys’ quizzical stares.  For a moment he thought she might throw him off, but something about his quivering shoulders or ragged breaths must have registered and instead she relaxed into the hug, hesitantly raising her own arms to rest against his back.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that - him clinging to her, her holding him, comforting if not understanding - but eventually he drew a shaky breath and released her, taking a small step back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, hiding his face while he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s fine.” Allison’s voice, surprisingly, was threaded with understanding.  “Scott told us where you’re from.  Am I….?  Did something happen?”

The words caught in his throat.  He settled for a jerky nod.

She leaned in, seemingly ready to inquire further before changing her mind at the last second. _Thank god_.  The last thing Stiles wanted was to recap the whole nogitsune disaster to this group of people who, for all their easy banter, barely knew him.

The guilt was bad enough without seeing the accusation in their eyes.

_Do you like riddles, Stiles?_

Stiles scrunched his eyes shut, but – _crap,_ nope, that was way worse.  Flinging them open again, he cast his mind desperately for a distraction and found himself staring at the other girl in the room – a girl whose appearance was so _wrong_ that it instantly shoved the memory far into the recesses of his mind.

Stiles would have recognised Lydia anywhere.  Her distinctive strawberry blonde hair and green eyes were unmistakeable, as were her full lips and petite stature.

But that was where the similarities ended.             

Her hair was shorter than he’d ever seen it, dull and lifeless and stopping just above her shoulders.  Her arms were skinny, the bones in her wrists jutting out sharply, and her skin was almost translucent, pale and drawn across her high cheekbones.  Her eyes, normally so keen and sparking with wit, drifted across the room, not fixing on anything in particular, lost in a world of their own.

“Lydia?” Stiles asked, uncertainly, stepping closer.

She slowly turned toward him.  Her movements were foggy, as though she was half-asleep, and there was no interest in her gaze as she stared blankly at a point in the middle-distance. 

Stiles’ chest burned.  “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded.

Isaac frowned.  Allison crossed her arms protectively across her chest, and Scott’ shoulders slumped.

“Just before the Revelation,” Scott explained, his gaze drifting sadly to the banshee, “she started screaming and she just…didn’t stop.  They ended up having to sedate her, and she’s never really been the same since.”

Stiles blinked, struggling to process the words, when suddenly Allison made an ‘oh’ of realisation and whirled around to face Scott. 

“Wait – the stuff you said a few weeks ago,” she blurted out, “about Lydia being a banshee.  You said you read about them, but you actually got that from Stiles, didn’t you?”

Scott nodded, guiltily.  “I didn’t want to lie to you, but Derek didn’t want me to talk about Stiles, so…”

On any other occasion, Stiles would have marvelled at the weirdness of Scott lying to Allison. But, right now, he was too busy being horrified at the realisation that Lydia had been trapped like this for…months?  Years? 

Isaac had no such problem.  His glare burned holes into Scott’s back, his initial shock quickly morphing to irritation.   “What the hell, dude?  Whose side are you on?”

Allison cut off Scott’s reply, jerking her attention back to Stiles.  “Has anything like this happened in your dimension?” she questioned, causing both Scott and Isaac to abandon their argument in favour of staring at him as well.  “Can you help her?”

Stiles immediately shook his head, but then hesitated.  “I mean…” he hedged, trying to find the right words.  “My Lydia’s never been like this.  But I’ve been able to help her before, kind of, so maybe if you tell me the full story…?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Allison admitted.  She bit her lip, looking Lydia up and down, then lowered herself into a nearby seat while she started talking.  “Lydia was fine right up until the Revelation.  You know her, right? Confident, sarcastic, always the centre of attention.  But that morning, as soon as the news broke, she changed.  She was quiet, a little out of it – just distracted, really.  Ordinarily, I would have been concerned, but there was so much else going on that day…”

The guilt was evident in her voice.  Stiles gave her a tight smile and a nod of understanding, but did not speak.  Nothing he could say would ease that feeling. 

Allison swallowed, lifting a delicate hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Lydia’s ear.  “I went over to her place that afternoon.  Dad wanted me home, but Scott and Derek had already left town and I knew he’d be furious, so I was doing my best to avoid him.  We were hanging out beside the pool and she went inside to get some drinks, and the next thing I knew…she was screaming.  Like, _screaming._ The windows actually shattered.

“I ran inside to find her just standing there, hands clamped over her ears, staring at nothing.  I yelled, shook her shoulders, but she didn’t even notice I was there.  I had no idea what was going on, so I ended up calling an ambulance – but, by then, there were riots in the street and they couldn’t get to us.”

Tears shone in her eyes, now, and when she spoke again her voice was rough.  “That’s when I called Jackson.  He was heading out of town with Isaac and Boyd, but as soon as I explained what happened they doubled back.  They got her to the hospital in record time – but it didn’t matter.  The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong.  Eventually, they decided it must be supernatural, so they locked her up instead – and the boys, too.”

There was no attempt to hide her self-reproach, and Stiles flinched at the tone.  He opened his mouth automatically, not sure what he could possibly say to make that better, when Isaac swiftly moved to Allison’s side and pulled her into a one-armed hug.

“It’s okay,” the werewolf murmured, barely audible.  “I’d make the same choice, if it happened again.”

Allison sniffed, trying and failing to muster a smile.  “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s true, though."

Stiles pretended not to hear their whispered conversation, instead taking the opportunity to watch Lydia carefully.  Her expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, but her gaze had shifted from him to Allison to Isaac – she was tracking the conversation, Stiles realised, uncomfortably.

“How much awareness does she have?” he asked, before realising he was interrupting an intimate moment and wondering just how long it would take Isaac to eviscerate him.

The curly-haired boy shot him an annoyed look, but Allison didn’t seem to mind.  She sniffed, pulling herself away from Isaac and turning back to Stiles.  “Some,” she answered, vaguely.  “Every now and then it’s like she snaps out of it, and she’ll talk like a normal person.  Sometimes she’ll comment on things that have happened days earlier, even though she was like this at the time, so I think she’s actually taking in more than she lets on.”

“Classic Lydia,” Stiles quipped, before frowning.  “What does she have to say about all this, then?”

Allison shook her head, grimly.  “We don’t ask about it.  She gets freaked out and, more often than not, just ends up right back in the fog.  Better to act like it’s not happening.”

Well, that made _no_ sense.

Something must have shown on his face, because Allison’s expression crumpled and Isaac’s lips became so thin they nearly disappeared.  “You’ve got nothing, do you?” he asked, bitterly.

Stiles hesitated.  Scott – and, god, he’d almost forgotten the other boy was there, hovering just behind his shoulder – stepped closer and rested a soothing hand on his back.  “It’s okay if you don’t,” he murmured, understanding as ever.  “Telling us that she’s a banshee has already been a big help.  We’ll figure it out.”

_Stiles, you’re the one who always figures it out.  So, you can do it._

“She’s a banshee,” Stiles muttered, latching onto the words.  He felt rather than saw Scott’s head tilt up at the words, but he didn’t care, too busy staring at Lydia, mind whirling.  “But she didn’t know that.  In my world, her powers were activated when Peter bit her – did that happen here?”

Three shaking heads confirmed his suspicion but he ignored them, already three steps ahead.  “So, one day, she’s your average high school student with no idea that supernaturals exist, and the next the Revelation happens – an event so massive that it led to an actual massacre, including a riot right here in Beacon Hills.”

“What’s your point?” Isaac asked, only to be shushed by Allison.

“My point is she’s overwhelmed,” Stiles bit out, taking a moment to glare at Isaac before stepping closer to Lydia.  “In the course of a single day she went from being human to having hundreds of soon-to-be-ghosts screaming in her head, completely out of the blue, with no idea who they are or what’s happening.  And since this shitstorm hasn’t stopped, they’ve never gone away.  Of course she’s terrified.”

He was right in front of her now, and he crouched down so that he could look her in the eye – or as a close as he could manage, since she still wore that blank, unfocussed expression.  “Hi,” he said, softly. “I guess it’s pretty loud in there, huh?”  

She didn’t so much as blink.  He sighed, resting back on his heels, chewing his cheek briefly before continuing.  “My Lydia never really got used to it, either.  You should see the looks she gives me when I ask her to use her powers.  Could cut through steel, I swear.”

No response, not even a flicker of recognition.

_She has to be in there, somewhere.  Keep going._ “She always described it as a cacophony. Too many voices talking over each other, too many sounds – and that’s without even taking the visions into account.  She broke down in tears the first time she told me about it.  That was before she knew anything about werewolves or banshees, and she legitimately thought she was going crazy.”

God, that seemed like so long ago.  He had thought he was in a dream, seeing Lydia arrive at his bedroom door, vulnerable in a way she so rarely was back then.  He had been bruised and terrified, drowning in a world much too large for him, but she had clung to him like a lifeline, her only link to the world of monsters and supernaturals.  She had trusted him to help her, and together they had patched each other up, two unlikely souls bound together by something he still couldn’t quite define.

He leaned forward, gently picking up Lydia’s hand and entwining her fingers with his own.  “You won’t be able to block them out,” he said, quietly.  “Lydia never could, and I don’t think she’s ever had as many people in her head as you do right now.  Banshees exist to warn others about impending death, it’s in your nature.  Once my Lydia stopped fighting it, she figured out how to ride out the visions and find her way back.”

He hesitated, searching her eyes for any sign of understanding.  Her face was still slack, but she hadn’t moved the whole time he was talking so that had to be a good sign, right?  “I know it’s scary, but you need to let them in.”

A low growl was the only warning Stiles had before someone grabbed the back of his shirt.  They dragged him up and back, inhumanly fast, and before he could even get his bearings he found himself thrown across the room. 

His back slammed painfully against the wall, and he would have crumpled if Isaac hadn’t suddenly appeared inches away from his face, hand somehow already twisted in the front of Stiles’ shirt.  

“What the hell?” the taller boy spat.  His eyes flashed gold; his fangs elongated.  “What are you playing at?”

Stiles barely heard him, too busy trying to breathe over the pain in his back.  He was pretty sure the plaster wall was in pieces and he was no doubt going to have an ugly bruise across his spine by tomorrow, but that was the least of his problems.  His chest tightened, his already-damaged lungs choosing that moment to finally seize up once more.  A cough wrenched out of his throat, followed by another, then another, and another.

His vision clouded, and the room swam.  He lost sight of Isaac, but the boy must have released him because suddenly he was landing hard on his hands and knees, just barely catching his face from smashing onto the hardwood floor. 

Vaguely, he was aware of hands reaching for him, concerned voices buzzing over the hum in his ears, but an instant later they were gone.  The world faded, drowned out by the growing heat in his chest.

_Oh no.  Not now.  Not here._

The heat spread, flames licking their way down his arms in a now-familiar pattern, thunder rumbling in the distance.

And then the fire pulsed out of him, and that was the last he knew.


	15. Coming Clean

“So, ‘just human’, huh?” 

Stiles groaned, blinking furiously in an attempt to bring the blurry ceiling into focus.  He was lying on a couch, judging by the weird angle of his legs and uncomfortable ridge under his pillow.  His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and his limbs felt like lead, but he somehow mustered the energy to loll his head sideways, taking in the sight of Scott perching on a nearby armchair and eyeing him warily.

“Uh huh,” Stiles muttered, before returning his stare to the ceiling.  “Last I checked.”

“Really?”  There was an edge to Scott’s voice now, a mixture of frustration and suspicion that caught Stiles off-guard.  He didn’t think he’d ever heard that tone before.  “Last _I_ checked, humans didn’t give off energy blasts and summon thunder.”

“Energy blasts?  Is that what we’re calling it?”

He could almost feel Scott’s glare boring in him, and Stiles had a moment of unease before the words struck home and he whipped around, staring wide-eyed at the werewolf as the blood drained from his face.  “Did I hurt someone?”

Scott’s brow furrowed, his eyes unreadable.  “You destroyed the room.  There was literal lightning.”

Stiles’ heart thumped.  His hands trembled and he didn’t bother to hide them as he teetered right on the edge of a panic attack.  “Who did I hurt?  You?  Lydia?”

“Nothing that won’t heal.  We got lucky,” Scott replied, flatly.

“Thank god.”  Relief washed over him, and Stiles exhaled a shaky breath before sliding up the couch to prop his back against the armrest.  It took an almost laughable amount of effort, and he was a little out of breath when he finally reached his goal, but when he turned back to Scott the werewolf was still scowling at him beneath drawn eyebrows.

Stiles bit his lip, his gut twisting.  “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“You think?”

Stiles coughed to clear the guilt from his throat. “I _am_ human, I think,” he started, ignoring the way that Scott’s frown deepened at the words.  “I don’t really know.  This whole ‘magic’ thing –” here, he made a complicated pattern with his hand “– is new territory for me.  I only found out about it thirty seconds before I landed in this world.”

Scott, to his credit, only looked slightly taken aback by the term ‘magic’ and recovered quickly. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I didn’t think it was relevant.  Remember how I said we were dealing with fairies?”  Scott pressed his lips together tightly, which Stiles took as a ‘yes’ and ploughed onward.  “Triggering magical potential is something that they do, apparently.  But Deaton said it would stop once the fairy was gone – no fairy, no magical outbursts.  And I figured he was right, especially since I tried to do it when I first arrived and nothing happened.  I wouldn’t lie to you, Scott.”

“So, what changed?”

“I think I burned myself out,” Stiles explained with a helpless shrug.  “I found a book…anyway, apparently it’s a common problem.  The spark comes back, eventually, but it can take time.  In this case, it wasn’t until after I left you guys that I realised it was still there.”

Scott paused a moment, letting the words sink in.  His glare softened slightly, but his shoulders remained stiff and his expression guarded.   “Isaac doesn’t trust you.  He wanted to restrain you and hand you over to Satomi.”

Stiles licked his lips nervously.  “And, you?”

The werewolf hesitated, his mouth open and closing several times as he weighed his options.  “I don’t know what to think.”

That hurt.  It shouldn’t have, logically – Scott barely knew him, after all, but still.  It brought back a few too many memories.  A rainy night, a bloodied wrench…the look of utter betrayal in Scott’s eyes.

His heart skipped a beat, and a flicker of heat sparked in his chest.

Stiles’ eyes widened and he whipped his head down to stare at his front. 

“Stiles?”  Scott’s voice was cautious, but for the first time since Stiles had awoken there was an undercurrent of concern.

Stiles reluctantly tore his gaze back up.  He licked his lips and absently grazed a hand over the front of his T-shirt.

“I’ve spent the last few days trying to learn how to use this…spark.  Magic.  Thing,” Stiles explained, voice wavering with uncertainty.  “I’m getting better at triggering it, but once it’s there…it’s a little tricky to control.  And, honestly, self-control’s never really been my strong suit.  I’m the last person who should be saddled with this.”

There was no response, save for a confused tilt of Scott’s head.

“You know Peter offered me the bite, once?” Stiles babbled, falling back on his old habits in response to the fear starting to flood his veins.  “I turned him down because, seriously, even _Scott_ spent his first few weeks throwing me into walls and tearing up furniture, and he’s usually a pinnacle of self-restraint.  Can you imagine how bad I’d be?  I’m pretty sure the only reason I haven’t blown up half of Beacon Hills is because, most of the time, the spark isn’t even there.”

“Is it there now?”

Stiles nodded, and Scott flinched.

A stab of hurt flashed through Stiles’ heart, fanning the flame even higher.  It filled his entire chest, now, surrounding his hammering heart, and he clutched his T-shirt with both hands as though he could somehow reach through his ribcage to smother the fire with his fists.

_Calm down, Stiles.  You need to stop it right now._

He tried to take a few slow breaths, tried to calm himself and the fire by proxy – but it was no use.  He’d always run hot and cold, and the flames were growing more intense by the second, rapidly approaching the now-familiar point of no return. 

His fingers trembled, and he jerked his gaze over to Scott.  “You should go,” Stiles warned, rubbing his hands across his chest, ignoring the frustrated tears springing to his eyes.  “I don’t have a handle on this yet.”

Scott hesitated, leaning back slightly.  Stiles could see the indecision in his eyes – the instinct to run warring with his natural reluctance to walk away from someone in need.

It was a short battle. 

He set his jaw, lips pressed together with determination, and crossed the distance to the couch in two small steps.  Then he dropped to his knees and reached out to close a hand over Stiles’ wrist. 

The heat flared immediately, flowing down Stiles’ arm to pool in the skin beneath Scott’s palm.  Stiles tried to jerk away, gasping in surprise, but Scott tightened his grip and held fast.

“I don’t know anything about magic,” Scott admitted, softly.  “But I know you’re not going to hurt me.”

Stiles shook his head rapidly, his eyes wide and horrified.  “I will.  I can’t stop it.”

“You’ll figure something out.”

Scott’s voice was firm, trusting, decisive.

And, apparently, he wasn’t leaving.

Stiles’ skin prickled, the heat simmering just below boiling point.  He swallowed nervously and considered trying to clamp down on it, to somehow package it back up into his chest.  But that would be a futile gesture – it was already pressing at his skin, begging for release, and there he knew there was no taking it back.

Okay, so maybe he could try to direct it through his hands, like he had during the fire?  It wasn’t a bad option – certainly better than letting it burst out unchecked – but, part of him baulked at the idea.  Last time, he’d sent an unliftable beam flying like it was nothing.  Before that, he’d destroyed a bush.  This time, maybe he’d destroy a door, or a wall…he could bring the whole house down on their heads, if he wasn’t careful. 

There had to be a better way.

Scott’s hand was still resting on his wrist, apparently oblivious to the gathering heat just below his palm, and Stiles frowned at it, considering. 

“It’s all energy, right?” Stiles said aloud, mostly to himself.  “So it should follow basic physics.”

“It’s magic, Stiles,” Scott warned, and Stiles would have to commend him on his controlled expression later.  The only reason he noticed the fear was their lifetime of friendship.  “Are you sure?”

“No.” 

Still, it was worth a shot - he couldn’t exactly go around blowing things up every time he got upset.

_Spread out_ , he willed it.  _Come on.  Get away from there._

He had always been told he had a good imagination.  He put it to use now, trying to imagine the heat spreading across his shoulders, down his back, through his legs and into his feet.

And, after a moment, the heat followed his command.  It drifted back up to his torso, then gradually seeped over his entire body until it was simmering beneath his skin from his neck to his toes, spread evenly across the surface.

_That’s it_ , Stiles thought, encouraged slightly by his success.  _Now, carefully._

His heart was in throat as he finally dared to loosen his grip.  He didn’t push the heat out, but rather tried to let it seep from his skin, just a whiff at a time.

“Uh, Stiles?”  Stiles glanced up, startled, to see Scott staring at the china cabinet near the door.  Stiles followed his gaze, lips parting in surprise when he noticed the ornaments levitating a full six inches from the surface.  “Are you trying to do that?”

“I’m not trying to _do_ anything.”  Stiles bit down on his bottom lip, fighting back a wave of fear at the sight.  “I’m just letting it out.”

Scott, thankfully, didn’t comment any further, instead merely nodding and giving Stiles’ wrist a gentle squeeze.

Well, okay, then.  Floating objects were better than exploding walls.  He shook his head, then carefully released another gentle ripple through his skin – slightly more than last time.

He realised instantly that he’d made a mistake.  A front of air pulsed outward, sending furniture skidding across the floor and knocking Scott backward. Across the room, the door slammed shut, and somewhere to his left there was a loud _crack_ of a window splitting in two. 

Oops.

“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles stammered, tightening his grip on the heat and trying to steady himself with a breath.  “Too much.”

“It’s okay.”  Scott, ever the optimist, was already back on his feet and giving Stiles a reassuring smile.  “Whatever you’re doing, I think it’s working.  Just gotta fine-tune it.”

“Fine-tune it,” Stiles echoed.  “Sure.”  He took a steadying breath, dialling his next burst back to a whiff.  He allowed himself a sigh of relief when the air stayed still and the windows remained intact – although the coffee table now hovering near the ceiling. 

“That’s better, I guess,” Stiles said, frowning at the underside of the table.  “But at this rate I’ll be at this for hours.”

He closed his eyes, hoping the darkness would help him focus.  The flames had lessened slightly but they were still there, curling beneath his skin, searching for a way out.  _Alright, here we go_.

He started with a whiff, just like before, but instead of clamping down he let it continue, a steady trickle of energy flowing out from him.  It felt strange – it felt _good_ , he realised with amazement, and he smiled slightly even as he –

“Stiles?”

It was Scott’s voice, and Stiles frowned, annoyed at the interruption.  He twitched his head reflexively and heard a strange choking sound from somewhere above him before he turned his attention back to the heat.  Strangely, it didn’t seem quite so terrifying now.  More…friendly.  Mischievous.  Playful.

_Well, hello there._

He reached out, tentatively, and it jumped and twirled in response.

_You’re not scary at all, are you?_

The trickle thickened to a steady stream, and Stiles basked in the sensation, his skin prickling with energy, with power, with fun.

A flicker of light hit the outside of his eyelids and he opened them, all loose limbs and easy smile.

And then his jaw dropped and he shot off the couch, muscles taut with horror.

The couch was the only thing still on the floor.  The coffee table, the piano, the china cabinet – everything was hovering in mid-air, drifting in lazy circles around the room.  The lightbulb was glowing – _but how? There’s no power!_ Stiles wondered frantically, before shaking off the question as the least of his worries – and the fan rotated rapidly on the ceiling, picking up speed with every second, already looking like it was ready to spin right off the plaster.

And Scott – holy shit, Scott.  The werewolf was wide-eyed and pale, windmilling his arms helplessly as he floated on the other side of the room, lips moving emphatically.  The veins in his neck were bulging and he looked almost like he was shouting – but there was no noise, no words, not even so much as a whisper.  It was like someone had hit the mute button – because he _had_ hit the mute button, Stiles realised with dismay, remembering Scott’s earlier interruption.  Holy crap.  _He_ had done this, and he hadn’t even noticed.

His throat tightened, and his stomach turned.  He was going to be sick.

The furniture picked up speed, becoming increasingly agitated with every second, and Stiles suddenly realised that he had completely forgotten to keep his careful grip on the flames.  In his distraction, the heat had consolidated once more in his arms, rippling toward his hands in an all-too familiar way. 

“Shit!”  Stiles clenched his fists, desperate, but it was no use – his palms were starting to burn now.  His heart raced, panic gripping his throat, and – _I’ve got to get out of here._ The door was three feet away, and he hurled himself desperately toward it, arms outstretched to push it open.

He was millimetres away when the flames exploded.

A wave of heat rushed through him, from his heart to his shoulders to his arms to his palms, and then into the smooth wood beneath his hands.  Metal screeched as the hinges twisted and tore, and then the door flew forward with a crack, arcing through the air to land in three separate pieces on the Whittemore’s front lawn.

And then it was over.

Stiles panted, his entire body shaking like a leaf, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. His chest was finally cold and oddly empty, and he reached blindly for the ragged doorframe as his head spun, his vision turning fuzzy around the edges. 

He might have collapsed right then and there, but for the gentle hands that clasped his shoulders, pulling him back from the wall and guiding him instead to sit on something soft.   

Stiles blinked furiously to clear his vision, but it was no use – his exhausted eyes simply couldn’t focus.  He settled for clutching his hands into fists instead, trying to hide if not settle the shaking.

“Hey.”  It was Scott’s voice – and the sound of it sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over Stiles – followed by a creak as the werewolf dropped into the couch beside him and gently nudged his shoulder. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Stiles breathed out a thin, humourless laugh.  “That’s where we’re setting the bar, huh?”

“Sure.  Although, Jackson might have something to say about the piano.”

“Eh, we both know it was just for show anyway.”

Scott chucked softly and Stiles quirked a wan smile, but it soon faded.  His forehead scrunched in confusion as he twisted toward Scott.  “Why did you stay?” he asked, hesitantly.  “Why are you _still here_ , after that?”

He half-expected Scott to brush off his concerns.  Surprisingly, though, the werewolf took a moment to consider his answer, biting his cheek thoughtfully.  “I know you think I’m too trusting,” he finally began.

Stiles felt like he’d just been kicked in the chest.  “Scott, I –”

“I’m not upset, Stiles,” the werewolf cut him off.  His dark eyes were steady as he met Stiles’ stare, his expression open.  “The thing is, I’d rather be too trusting than the opposite.  I don’t want to accidentally abandon someone who needs help.”  He glanced around the upturned room, gesturing broadly to the damaged furniture.  “I know you didn’t mean to do this.  I could see you struggling.  I could smell your fear.”

“Sure, but that’s not the point,” Stiles argued.  He gripped his hands together more tightly, wishing the trembling would just _stop_ already.  “I couldn’t stop it, and next time I might hurt someone.  There’s no excuse for that.”

_The rain drenching his shirt, dripping off his chin.  The bloodied wrench.  Scott’s accusing stare._

Stiles inhaled shakily, dragging a hand across his face and turning away to hide the wetness in his eyes.

Beside him, he felt the cushion move as Scott shifted his weight.  “You didn’t have this much trouble at the school,” he pointed out.

Stiles considered that.  “I think it wasn’t as volatile, there,” he speculated.  “Or I wasn’t.  It doesn’t seem to go off like this when I’m calm.”

“That makes sense,” Scott said.

Stiles raised his eyebrows, his vision finally clear enough to pin the other boy with a bemused expression.  “Does it?”

Scott smiled.  “Sure.  It’s similar to how it works for us, right?  Especially when we’re just turned. I had to learn to anchor myself to stop wolfing out all the time.”

Stiles sighed, sinking back into the couch cushions and eyeing the room miserably.  “I told you, though.  I’m not great at self-control.  Just ask…anybody, really.”

“That’s okay.  I can help.”  Scott smirked at Stiles’ doubtful expression, letting it slide off him like he did everything else.  “Honestly, I’m a little insulted you didn’t come to me earlier.  You’re worried about losing control and you didn’t ask the werewolf for help?  Really?”

“If you start pelting me with lacrosse balls, I’m out of here.”

Scott’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “What?”

“Never mind.”  Stiles felt his shoulders finally relax, his heart lighter than it had been since he left the Hale house.  “Let’s do it.”

* * *

They didn’t do it straight away.  Scott insisted on resting first, and then decided that Stiles absolutely needed a second breakfast when his first attempt to stand resulted in him falling flat on his face. 

“What about you?” Stiles asked from his spot on the floor.  He nodded to Scott’s leg, which had been bleeding slightly through the bandages late last night.  “You healing okay?”

Scott appeared surprised at the question, but then he nodded while helped Stiles into a sitting position.  “The burns are more or less gone.  The leg is taking a bit longer.”

“Need me to clean it?”

Scott raised his eyebrows.  “Don’t you get queasy?  You always looked like you were going to faint when I did it for you.”

“Sometimes,” Stiles hedged, never mind that he was already turning pale at the thought. “But I can manage.  I think.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Scott chortled, even as he walked away to grab some food from the kitchen.  “I’ll ask Allison when she gets back.”

“Where is she?”   Stiles pressed his hands to the floor and slid back along the carpet until he was resting against the couch.  “Where’s everyone, for that matter?”

“They went to the school,” Scott’s voice drifted through the wall.

Oh, right.

Stiles had completely forgotten.

Guilt crashed over him once more, catching his breath, and his shoulders tensed as he waited for the familiar flicker of heat.  But luck was on his side, and his chest remained cold.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s interesting.”

“What’s that?”  Scott was balancing a plate of biscuits in one hand and two cups of water in the other, but he still managed to shoot Stiles an inquisitive look before carefully setting them down.

Stiles gestured to his chest. “I think I burned myself out.”  Strangely, he found he was a little upset through his relief.  Hollow.  Like something was missing.  “Probably for the best,” he added, and he tried to believe it.

Scott eyed Stiles doubtfully but didn’t call him on it.  “It’ll be back, though, right?” he asked instead, and continued after Stiles’ answering nod. “Then we should probably talk about anchors.”

“Anchors?” Stiles echoed dryly.  “Dude, I _invented_ anchors.”

“Then what’s yours?”

“I…” Stiles drifted into silence, his mind surprisingly blank.

Scott nudged the plate a little closer and waited until Stiles reluctantly picked up a biscuit before talking.  “Anchors can be anything,” he explained.  “A person, an emotion, whatever.  Something that helps define you, so you can grab onto it and remember who you are rather than whatever the moon wants you to be.  Or, in your case, the magic, I guess.  Bonus points if it’s something you find calming – no point having an anchor that makes you more upset.”

“I know all this,” Stiles muttered, but then he tipped his head back onto the couch with a sigh.  “Did you ever meet Liam Dunbar?”

“Should I have?”

“Guess not,” Stiles acknowledged. “He was a transfer kid with anger issues.  Got expelled from his last school after trashing a car, and then Scott accidentally turned him into a werewolf.”

Scott winced.  “Oops.”

“Yeah, that was more or less my reaction.   But he actually did okay, give or take a bit of streaking.  Satomi’s mantra helped him a lot.’”

“The sun, the moon, the truth,” Scott murmured, snagging a biscuit for himself.  “Think it could help you?”

“Nope.”  Stiles bit off part of the biscuit and lolled his head to the side to shoot Scott a frustrated look.  “I’m not really a mantra guy.  Too philosophical.  Just sends me into spirals of questions.”

“Alright, so what about a person?  Your version of me?  You guys sound close.”

Stiles bit his lip, considering.

Scott, dragging Stiles’ paralysed body through the station.  Pulling him into a hug before his MRI.  Trying in vain to shield him from the Oni.

…Scott’s face, contorting in pain as the sword twisted in his stomach.  Scott’s hand, trembling slightly as he held up the bloodied wrench.

“Not Scott,” Stiles blurted, jerking himself out of the memory and staring intently at his half-eaten biscuit so that he wouldn’t have to look at his friend.  His heart was racing, and he took a few deep breaths and hoped the other boy would be polite enough to pretend he hadn’t noticed. 

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, “I thought you said you wouldn’t lie to me?”

Scott’s voice was quiet but filled with hurt, and Stiles pressed his eyes shut for a moment while he decided how best to approach this mess.

“I didn’t lie,” he said, slowly, reopening his eyes to meet Scott’s gaze directly.  “Scott’s my brother.  It’s just that some stuff happened a few months ago…long story short, we had a falling out.  And it sucked – it really, _really_ sucked – but it’s over now.  We’re back to being friends.”

“But?”

“But…”  Stiles drew out the word, not wanting to voice his thoughts aloud.  He hadn’t even wanted to think them, and he’d spent the last few months constantly pushing them to the back of his mind, but Scott was staring at him with a piercing gaze and he knew it was futile to try to hide them now.  “It’s not like it was,” he finally admitted, feeling the grip around his lungs loosen slightly for having the words spoken aloud.  “It’s weird, because I know I can trust him – he’s Scott, for fuck’s sake – but at the same time…  whenever I even _think_ of opening up to him, all I see is the look on his face from that night.  And then I clam right back up.”

He searched Scott’s face nervously, waiting for the other boy’s shields to slam down, for his shoulders to hunch protectively and his torso to subtly turn away.  For him to reject Stiles the way his counterpart had not that long ago.

He was surprised, then, to see a faint line appear between Scott’s brows as he mulled over the words.    

“Does he know?” the werewolf asked, eventually.

Stiles blinked.  “I have no idea,” he admitted.  “He hasn’t said anything, and neither have I.”

Scott snorted, then sunk back against the couch and fiddled with his own biscuit, his eyes suspiciously red.  “Word of advice from someone whose entire world got turned upside down?  Talk to him.  Figure it out before you lose your chance.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and Stiles swallowed against his suddenly-dry throat and didn’t respond.

After a beat, Scott sniffed slightly and spoke with an overly-bright tone.  “So.  Any other possible anchors?”

Stiles frowned, trying to think through the maelstrom of memories.  “No, but maybe the book has some different ideas.  Fancy a trip back to the high school?”

* * *

 

The gym was gone.

Stiles blinked at the sight of the twisted, blackened structure that stood in the middle of scorched ground, illuminated from behind by the late afternoon sun.  It wasn’t the first time he had seen the building damaged, what with the school being a magnet for all things monstrous, but even the Beast’s destruction couldn’t hold a candle to the devastation laid out before him. 

Beside him, Scott was taking in the sight with pained eyes.  His mouth twisted into a grimace, and his forehead creased so deeply that Stiles was worried it might stick.

“Scott?  What is it?”

The boy jumped at his name, flicking his gaze briefly to Stiles before turning back to the wreckage.  “It’s all gone,” he answered, slowly.

Stiles arched an eyebrow.  “Well…yeah.”  He winced at his own voice, sounding particularly callous in comparison to Scott’s wretched tone.   But, still, Scott had to have known what to expect.  He had seen the size of the blaze, just as Stiles had.

Scott stilled, before rolling his eyes in Stiles’ direction.  “Not the _building_ ,” he groused.  “Everything inside it.  Including the food stores.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Oh.

Oh, _shit._

“Yeah, shit.”  There was no humour in Scott’s voice, just grim acceptance of their new reality.  “This was a targeted attack.  Peter’s made his move.”

“Has it worked?  Have many people switched over to his side?”

Scott shrugged, but there was an unsettled glint in his eyes that was at odds with the calm gesture.  “I’ve been with you, haven’t I?” he pointed out.  “The others will probably know.  Where’s this book of yours?”

“Mr Harris’ classroom.”  Tearing his eyes away from the wreckage, Stiles instead set his sights on the main building and started picking a path toward it, Scott falling into step beside him.  “Before that, Deaton’s hidden cupboard at the clinic.  Turns out, he has a pretty awesome collection.”

The front doors were propped open with a brick, but the hallway was deserted, so Stiles stepped inside without a second thought.  “I’m hoping that I can –”

Something heavy crashed into his side, sending him careening across the hallway and into a row of lockers.  His already-bruised back flared in agony and he gasped, raising his head to meet the crimson eyes of his assailant who stood snarling at him from the middle of the hallway.

“Derek,” Stiles growled, meeting the man’s glare with one of his own.

At first Derek didn’t reply, merely lurching closer and twisting his hands into the front of Stiles’ shirt.  He scanned the boy from head to toe with a wild gaze before turning to do the same for Scott. 

Finally, though, he released his grip on Stiles and exhaled heavily, taking a miniscule step back.  “You’re both okay,” he whimpered.

Stiles bit down on his tongue to smother his instinctive reply.  He didn’t need to add any more bruises to his collection.

Thankfully, Scott was already three steps ahead.  His voice was calm, his palms outstretched as he took a step closer to the agitated alpha.  “We weren’t in the building,” he assured him.  “We were nearby, though, so we did what we could to help.  By the time we were done it was too late to go back so we stayed with the others.”

The unspoken _I’m sorry_ was clear, and after a beat Derek visibly deflated, running a shaky hand through his hair and nodding in acceptance.

“For the record, this is exactly why I said to stay out of this,” Derek grumbled, shooting a sharp glance in Stiles’ direction.  “It’s too dangerous.”

The words snapped Stiles out of his silence, irritation instantly slamming back full-force.  “Are you for real?” he demanded.  “A lot more people would be dead if we weren’t there.”

“ _You_ could be – actually, you know what?  I’m not doing this again.”  Derek threw his hands up in the air, eyes glinting crimson once more as his glare shifted from Stiles to Scott and back again.  “I tried to keep you out of it, and you both left anyway and nearly burned to death.  Are you seriously planning to _stay_ here?”

“Yes.”  Surprisingly, the answer came from Scott.  It was quiet, but there was a steely tone to his voice that brooked no argument.  “I’m sorry, Derek.  But I can’t walk away from this, and neither can Stiles.”

Derek’s jaw worked.  His glare was cutting, but Scott squared his shoulders and stood his ground, and the moment stretched on for nearly a full minute before the older man finally gave in.

“Fine,” Derek ground out, begrudgingly.  “I’ll find a place to stay in town.”

Stiles blinked, and to his left Scott looked equally bewildered. 

“What, you’re staying?” Scott clarified, shocked.  “You’ve been trying to stay out of this since it began!”

“Yeah, well, things change,” Derek replied, sourly.  “You decided to start harbouring a death wish, for instance.  Two conditions, though.  One: we don’t stay at the school.  It’s too big a target.”

Scott nodded rapidly, the beginning of a grin spreading across his face. 

Derek looked like he was already regretting this decision, but he pressed on regardless.  “And, two: you actually listen to me.   No running off to do your own thing behind my back.”

Scott’s smile faltered.  “Derek, I meant what I said.  I can’t just sit on the sidelines anymore.”

“I know.”  The alpha’s mouth twisted in distaste, giving up the fight with reluctance.  “I’m not going to stop you from helping Satomi, but I also don’t want you rushing off and getting yourself killed.  Just…keep me in the loop, okay?  That goes for both of you.”

“Okay.”  Scott glanced at Stiles, who hesitated a moment longer before nodding reluctantly.

A strange numbness was creeping over Stiles’ skin.  He knew he should be relieved that Derek was finally coming to his senses, but something about this mother-hen alpha just didn’t sit right.  And then there was the sheer discomfort of witnessing him worry over Scott – it made Stiles feel like he was intruding on a private moment. 

He cleared his throat, awkwardly.  “I’m just going to…go that way,” he muttered, jerking his thumb in the direction of his old living area.  “You guys probably have some stuff to talk out.”

Peripherally, he was aware of Derek making to protest, but Stiles booked it down the corridor before he could get a word out.   

He needed a moment to work through his thoughts before his head spun entirely off his shoulders.

Because in the last week, his reality had shifted on him more times that he could count, and he could barely keep up with it all.  Between Scott trying to hold him prisoner, finding sanctuary with Satomi only for that to literally go up in flames, then seeing his dead friends walking around like nothing had ever happened… except in this world, Allison never actually died, so maybe it was more like a copy that had appeared in the kitchen, accompanied by someone who looked like Lydia except she moved in a fog and never spoke. 

And that was before he even got started on the whole magic thing.

This whole fucking nightmare of a reality was driving him completely out of his mind.   All these strange versions of his friends, muddying his instincts and messing with his emotions until he could barely think straight.

And, now, Derek had to show up and act like he was…what, family?  _Pack?_

Stiles hated being blindsided.

He was so lost in thought, his stomach twisting with guilt, his feet mindlessly propelling him toward his room, that he didn’t notice the figure lurking in a doorway until it was too late.

A strong hand clapped itself over his mouth just as an iron-strong arm wrapped itself around his shoulders, pulling him off his feet.

He never even had a chance to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I include the Scott/Stiles breakup in every single TW fic I write? Probably. That scene is the only time I ever cried over this damn show. 
> 
> Thankyou so much to everyone who is taking the time to read. xx


	16. Gone

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Scott ducked his head but didn’t manage to wipe the baffled expression from his face.  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically, “I’m still processing.  You’ve been so adamant about staying out of everything, I need a moment to adjust.”

Derek ground his teeth, wishing he could skip to the end of the conversation.  Fatigue was tugging at him - he’d slept all of eight hours in the last three days, unable to relax with that infuriating itch between his shoulder blades – and he wanted nothing more than to round up the boys and drag them somewhere safe so he could collapse into bed. 

That wasn’t going to fly, though, if Scott’s curious squint was anything to go by.  “It’s been a strange few weeks,” Derek finally grumbled, reluctantly.  “And I don’t love the idea of you two idiots running around unsupervised.”   

Scott pursed his lips, considering.  “So, if I’d stood my ground and insisted on moving in with the others last year, would you have done it?”

Derek narrowed his eyes.  “Don’t start.”

“Fine, but what about –”

“I don’t like ‘what if?’ scenarios, Scott.  Drop it.”

The teenager’s eyes widened slightly at Derek’s harsh tone, and on another day the alpha might have felt a pang of remorse.  Instead, though, he just watched with weary satisfaction as the boy mimed pulling a zip over his mouth. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll be nice,” Scott sighed. “Can’t speak for Stiles, though.”

Stiles…ugh.  Derek twitched, fighting off the temptation to hunt down the kid who had run off almost as soon as he’d found him.  Like it or not, Stiles had gotten under Derek’s skin and for all his internal fuming he couldn’t shake a growing sense of responsibility for the human.  For some reason, his bloody alpha instincts had recognised him as Pack, and as far as they were concerned, that was that. 

Well, that wasn’t quite true.  He had been able to silence those instincts in the past, after all: to cut off the feeling of responsibility, to smother the need to find his betas, to teach them, to protect them.  But it hadn’t been easy and even now it still nagged at him, the failure hanging over his head like a wraith, infiltrating his dreams and sending his heart racing at the most inconvenient of times.

It had been the right decision, though, and he stood by that belief.  They had been trapped in Beacon Hills, separated from him by walls and mountain ash and a frankly excessive amount of guards, and Derek had Scott to worry about.  If the teenager hadn’t been with him, then _maybe_ Derek would have stormed the camp just so his skin would stop crawling, but the fact was he _did_ have Scott with him.  A sixteen-year-old kid who’d lost, in a few short months, his humanity, his hometown, his friends, and his mother.  Scott would have been dead in a week if it weren’t for Derek, and so he’d done what he had to do.

It took time, though.   The first few months, through all the running and hiding and desperately trying to stay one step ahead of the hunters chasing them down, his instincts constantly screamed at him to turn back.  Eventually, though, it settled into a smouldering knot at the back of his mind, uncomfortable but easy enough to ignore, and when they were eventually caught - when he found himself face-to-face with his once-betas for the first time in over a year - the knot barely even flickered in recognition.

And then Stiles arrived.

Stiles, with his pale face and messy hair and quick grin.

Stiles, with his hot temper and judgemental frown and blunt manner of speaking.

Stiles, who found himself trapped in the middle of a brewing conflict that didn’t concern him in the slightest, and immediately threw himself into the heart of it without a second thought.

It was something Derek might have done, once.  It was something that the alternate version of him probably would have done, if the way Stiles spoke about him was any indication, and the realisation ignited a fury within him that he hadn’t felt in years.  Fury at Stiles, for reminding him of who he used to be.  Fury at himself, for straying so far from the path that he wanted to walk.

He was a born werewolf, from a family of werewolves who were sworn to protect Beacon Hills.  He was an alpha, who gained the title after killing his own uncle in the name of protecting the town he loved.

He was a piss-poor imitation of an alpha, who was so busy protecting himself that he forgot to protect everyone else.

It had nagged at him from the day Stiles left, but it wasn’t until Scott walked after him that Derek truly let himself consider the idea.  And then, before he had a chance to weigh his options, the scent of smoke had burned his nostrils and he had turned toward it, icy fear flooding his limbs at the sight of ash clouds billowing into the air.

He’d felt that fear, before.  When Paige shuddered in pain, weak in his arms.  When he arrived home, only to find a black, smouldering wreck.  When he turned on the TV to see Gerard Argent standing next to the President.  When he huddled next to Scott, the younger boy asleep on the leaf-strewn ground, desperately trying to figure out their next move.

He’d hoped to never feel it again.

He’d raced faster than he ever had before, but by the time he made it into town the fire was controlled and the boys were nowhere to be seen.  Soot-covered people huddled together as they thronged toward the elementary school, and he considered going in – but, no.  There was no guarantee that the boys were there, and on that night an unfamiliar face was unlikely to be welcomed.

So, he’d skulked in the shadows, watched from a distance until weariness wore him down, and then he’d hunkered down in an abandoned building to wait out the night.

Hearing their voices outside the high school, seeing them both walk through the front door – Derek couldn’t describe the relief that he’d felt at that moment.  The wave that crashed over him, making his limbs shake and his breath leave his lips as the world righted itself in an instant.

It was fading rapidly, though, replaced by a familiar irritation as Scott continued to stare at him in bewilderment.  He knew Derek better than pretty much anyone – was it really so hard to believe he’d decided to help?

Derek shifted, inhaling sharply, casting his mind for another topic before he went too far down that rabbit hole.  “What’s Stiles doing?” he asked, gruffly.

Scott’s expression suddenly turned mask-like, his eyes darting sideways.  “He’s getting some stuff from his room.”

It was an obvious lie and Derek frowned, foreboding dragging his stomach.  “What stuff?”

“Stuff,” Scott answered, before very subtly changing the topic.  “Satomi’s settling everyone in at the elementary school.  We were headed there next; did you want to come?”

Derek’s lips tightened and he weighed his options.  He could call Scott out on his shit – and, man, part of him _really_ wanted to…or, he could wait.  Pick his battles.  Let Scott and Stiles tell him the truth on their own terms.

Fuck. It wasn’t a choice at all.

“Sure,” Derek sighed, reluctantly.  “I bet they could use the help.”

Scott smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes, and Derek couldn’t help but return it even as something prickled at the back of his neck.  He broke his gaze to glance over his shoulder, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows as he studied the empty hallways.  He fought to keep the worry out of his voice as he commented, “He’s been gone a while.”

The relaxed atmosphere instantly vanished.  Scott’s smile slipped off his face, replaced by a slightly troubled expression as he stepped forward. 

“Yeah,’ the younger boy acknowledged, before exchanging a glance with the alpha.  “Maybe he really _is_ just giving us space.”  Still, he set off at a brisk walk, Derek easily keeping pace, and didn’t try to hide the tension in his shoulders.  He must have known where Stiles was headed, since he turned the corner with confidence, trotting down one hallway then the next before pushing open a wooden classroom door.  “Stiles?”

The room was empty.  Scott wandered inside, dark eyes scanning the furniture as though hoping to find his friend curled beneath a desk, while Derek stayed at the door and cautiously sniffed the air.  He’d never been great at tracking, but even he would be able to catch a whiff of the teenager if he’d passed through here.

There was nothing, no trace of him at all. Derek pushed back on his rising panic, darting his gaze over to his beta.

What he saw made his heart sink.  Scott was rising from a crouch in a corner of the room, clutching a vaguely-familiar backpack in a white-knuckled grip, jaw clenching and unclenching with barely-suppressed terror.  “He didn’t take it,” he muttered, so softly it was probably not meant for Derek’s ears.

Derek whirled on the spot, ignoring the ringing in his ears, his gut twisting with fear and fury and something else that he didn’t want to think about as he strode back the way they had come, nostrils flaring as he scented the air.  There was nothing to find at first, but when he rounded the corner he noticed it – Stiles’ familiar scent, mixed with another that he didn’t recognise.

And, overpowering all of it, sending the ringing up to a volume that drowned out the thump of his racing heart, even as his stomach twisted and his knees locked into position: the strong stench of fear.

* * *

 

“Maybe he just left?”

Derek growled, shooting Scott a sharp glance as the beta hurried to keep up.  “Does it smell like he just left?”

“Well, no, but it’s not like he hasn’t done it before. Derek, slow down.”

Derek didn’t slow down.  He barrelled through the front doors of the school just in time to see dust settling into faint tyre tracks in the middle of the road, and he took off at a sprint, determined to catch up with the vehicle.  But the dust vanished as soon as they turned the corner, taking the tracks with it, and whoever had taken Stiles was far too clever than to let the boy’s scent leak into the air.

The trail ended before it even began.

Derek could make a pretty good guess as to where they were going, though, so he turned toward the centre of town and took off at a more sustainable pace.  Maybe if he could get there before the truck –

“Derek, stop!”  Scott’s voice scattered Derek’s thoughts as the smaller boy caught up with him, darting before Derek and forcing him to pull up short so he didn’t bowl him over.  “Think about this for a second.”

“There’s no time,” Derek barked.  He waved a hand at the road, well aware that he probably looked like a maniac with his pale face and wide eyes.  “We have to get to him before –”

“It’s _already_ too late,” Scott interrupted, yet again.  There was a fierceness to his expression that Derek wasn’t sure he’d seen before, and he planted a hand on Derek’s chest when the alpha looked ready to dart past him, stopping him with a firm glance.  “You think they’re not armed in there?  You think there aren’t reinforcements around the corner?  You know how they operate.”

“So, what? You’re just going to give up?”

“No, of course not,” Scott snapped, anger flashing across his face.  “But we need to talk to the others first. Ask for help, or at least let them know where we are so we don’t just vanish off the face of the earth.  I don’t want to end up like Erica.”

The name slammed into him like a truck.  Derek froze, glaring at Scott hard enough to burn holes, but the younger werewolf doubled down on his resolute stare. 

“I’m sorry,” Scott added, softer, “I know you don’t like to think about her, but you have to.  They held her prisoner for months, and none of us even knew about it.  We didn’t even know she was in _town_ until we found her body.  I don’t want them to do the same to us.”

“They’ll know we’re missing,” Derek countered, his voice harsh.  “They’ll know _you’re_ missing, at least.”

“Maybe,” Scott allowed.  “Or, maybe they’ll think I changed my mind.  Or that Stiles kidnapped us.”

It was a strange turn of phrase, and Derek squinted in confusion.  “What?”

Scott winced, licking his lips uncertainly.  He glanced over his shoulder, in the direction the vehicle had no doubt disappeared, before turning back toward Derek and prodding him to turn around.  “Come on.  Walk and talk.”

Derek hesitated, taking one last moment to stare down the bitumen path.  There was still time, maybe if they split up…

…if they split up, Derek would almost certainly be gunned down before he got within a hundred yards of the vehicle.  As much as he hated to admit it, Scott was right.  They needed to be smarter about this – they needed to retreat, for now, and hopefully come back with reinforcements.

Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away and fell into step with Scott, who set a steady pace as he lead the way to the elementary school.  “So, what aren’t you telling me?”

Scott’s cheeks were tinged pink, his eyes fixed firmly on the buildings ahead as he responded.  “Don’t be mad,” he started – _always a good sign_ , Derek groused internally, barely refraining from rolling his eyes – “but it turns out that Stiles isn’t completely human after all.  Have you heard the term ‘spark’ before?”

Derek froze mid-step.  “What?”

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Scott mumbled, poking Derek in the shoulder to get him moving again.  “So, Stiles is one.  Or has one?  Anyway, he thinks the fairies that brought him here might have triggered it.  It’s new territory for him, and his control’s not great.  He basically blew up Jackson’s house this morning.”

Derek’s mind whirled, struggling to reconcile the words with the nerdy, skinny teenager who’d collapsed to the floor the first time they met and whined the entire week that it took for his leg to heal.  The idea did not compute. 

“So, we went back to the school to get this book of his,” Scott was rambling beside him, one hand tugging the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder, “in the hopes that it might have some suggestions, and that’s when you showed up.”

The words triggered something in the deep recesses of his mind, and Derek’s heart skipped a beat as the memory resurfaced.  “Sparks are notorious for being unstable,” he recalled.  “That’s partly where the name comes from.  If they can’t control it, they’re basically walking time bombs.”

Scott shot him a sharp glance.  “Right,” he acknowledged, uneasily.  “But Stiles has _some_ control - he didn’t blow me up, at least.  And it doesn’t really matter right now, since he burned himself out this morning.”

Derek wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel better or worse.  It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Stiles accidentally exploded his kidnappers, as far as he was concerned.

Sighing, Derek turned the corner, in step with Scott, slowing slightly as the school came into view.  “Are you sure about this?” he asked again, one final plea to leave it be.

Scott shot him a sharp glance, never breaking stride.  “Of course.”

Derek let the teenager draw ahead, following his lead past the small office building nearest the road to the much larger block of classrooms behind.  There were a few clusters of people standing outside it, most of them shooting Derek suspicious glances as they hurried past, and Derek did his best to appear non-threatening.  He wasn’t sure that he succeeded, as they responded by shrinking back in fear, but he suppressed his offended sensibility and tried to focus on the task ahead.

Within the building was a long row of classrooms, doors thrown open and a cacophony of voices drifting down the hall.  Here, Scott slowed, for the first time appearing slightly uncertain as he poked his head through one doorway, then the next.  At the third, he hesitated a moment before crossing the threshold, gesturing for Derek for follow.

The room was larger than Derek had expected.  The removable wall separating two classrooms was drawn back, creating a relatively open, carpeted room.  And on that carpet were a dozen children, young enough that they might have been students here in a different life, noisily digging through a box of used toys while a handful of adults looked on.

Derek didn’t recognise any of them.  He frowned, oddly discomfited by the notion of kids being trapped in here with the rest of them, and glanced toward Scott in confusion.  Surprisingly, the werewolf wasn’t looking at the room at all, instead fixing a determined stare at the side of Derek’s head.

“What?” Derek demanded, crossing his arms defensively.

Scott swallowed, before flicking his wrist to gesture at the room.  “I thought I saw Jackson,” he said, softly.  “Guess I made a mistake.”

The words were carefully neutral, and Derek clenched his jaw.  That made two blatant lies in the last half hour alone, by his count.  Worse still, he was starting to realise why Scott had dragged him into this room in particular, and it was rapidly fuelling his barely-suppressed anger, sending heat rushing into his head and making his fists clench by his side.

A flash of regret crossed Scott’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak but at that moment Derek’s attention was captured by a woman approaching from his left.  Derek didn’t recognise her – she was small, with dark eyes and equally dark hair, and she looked like she would snap in two under a strong breeze – but there were tense lines around her mouth and a determined clip to her stride as she drew to a stop mere feet away.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she interrupted, deliberately and without a hint of remorse, “but where did you get that?” 

She pointed at the backpack still hanging off Scott’s shoulder, and the younger boy clenched the strap in a tight grip, his features instantly hardening with suspicion.

“Why do you ask?” Scott replied.

The woman hesitated.  Her eyes darted from Scott to Derek, before returning to study Scott’s face intently, recognition flitting across her features.  “Wait, you were here last night, weren’t you?  With Stiles.”

Scott’s hand tightened once more on the bag.  “Yes,” he said, carefully.  “You know him?”

She nodded, a smile briefly playing on her lips.  “Not well, but he certainly made an impression.  Is he coming back?”

“I’m not sure,” Scott floundered, before shooting a pleading glance at Derek, who sighed and stepped forward to brace a hand on the teenager’s shoulder.

“He’s just resting,” Derek said, smoothly, while simultaneously steering Scott toward the door.  “Do you know where Jackson or Isaac are?”

The woman’s smile vanished almost instantly, and Derek was pretty sure she’d caught the lie.  She didn’t comment, though, instead merely replying with “I think they’re in the yard,” and Derek flashed her a grateful smile before leaving.

“You’re terrible at this,” Derek commented bluntly, as soon as they were out of earshot.

Scott nodded miserably.  “I don’t like lying,” he complained.  “You know that.”

Derek rolled his eyes, for a moment considering calling him out on his earlier falsehoods before deciding to let it slide.  For now, at least, they had more important things to do. 

The elementary school was much smaller than the high school, so it wasn’t long before they found themselves entering the shaded yard, where dozens of people were hard at work sorting through a giant pile of dirty objects.  They had clearly decided to dump all they could salvage in the middle of the space, then sort it all into small piles around the edge of the yard, and from here Derek could see an relatively large pile of nothing but clothing, another area that was reserved for games, and in the corner nearest the door, being guarded by a bored-looking teen, a few measly boxes of preserved food.

He swallowed against his dry throat, tearing his gaze away before his guilt reached bursting point.  Stiles first, then everybody else.

“There’s Jackson,” Scott announced, audibly relieved, turning sharply toward him, with Derek following slightly slower.  “And Boyd.”

The werewolves were huddled together in an isolated corner of the yard and as Derek approached he also spied Lydia sitting cross-legged on the ground beside them.  They had a small mound of medical supplies in front of them – taking inventory, he realised – and it was an effort to stop himself from grinding his teeth at the reminder.  Too many problems, not enough time.

Scott’s foot scraped across an errant rock and the two boys spun defensively, their eyes widening in surprise when they spotted Derek.  Boyd’s caution faded into curiosity, while Jackson’s lips thinned with suspicion.  Lydia didn’t so much as twitch, her large green eyes staring vacantly at thin air.

“Hi guys,” Scott started, briefly summoning a wan smile before worry once again tightened his mouth.  “We need to talk.  Where are the others?”

Jackson bristled, clearly preparing a sarcastic reply, but Boyd elbowed him in the ribs and answered before he had the chance.  “They’re nearby.  What’s going on?”

Scott looked like he was a hair’s breadth away from wringing his hands.  “They took Stiles.”

Boyd blinked.  Jackson stared.

Then, Jackson took a careful, deliberate breath, and turned back around.  “How many bandages again?”

Derek’s stomach clenched.  He glared at the spot between Jackson’s shoulder blades, but the teenager completely ignored him in favour of fiddling with a bottle of antiseptic and watching Boyd impatiently.

The darker boy hesitated.  Indecision was written into every line on his face, and he lowered his voice.  “Do you know why?”

“Probably to get to me,” Derek muttered through clenched teeth.

 “So, why are you here?”

Scott frowned, a little taken aback.  “Because we need to get him out.  We could use your help.”

Jackson snorted loudly, and even though Boyd shot him an annoyed look, he also shook his head.  “If they have him, he’s gone,” Boyd said, bluntly.  “If we go after him, they’ll get us too.  And then what will happen to them?”  He waved a hand in the direction of the classroom building.  “You want to leave the kids undefended?”

“Of course not,” Scott retorted with uncharacteristic frustration, and Derek was preparing himself to break up a fight when they were once again interrupted – this time, by a voice that was instantly recognisable.

“How about we take this somewhere else?” Allison said.  Her tone was casual, but she inserted herself into the space between Scott and Boyd in a movement that was too smooth to be accidental.  “Where we won’t be overhead,” she added, jerking her chin toward the centre of the yard, where a few curious heads had turned in their direction.

“Excellent idea,” Derek grunted, grabbing Scott by the arm and forcibly dragging him to the far end of the yard, where it opened into a sports field.

Jackson didn’t so much as budge, and after a moment of hesitation Boyd also stayed put.  Allison trailed after them, though, and as soon as they stepped onto the grass they were joined by Isaac, who must have been lurking nearby.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Isaac deadpanned, even as he fell into step beside Derek.

Derek spared him a glance, the knot in the back of his mind throbbing once, weakly, before falling silent.  “Desperate times,” he replied.  Then added, after a moment of hesitation, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Isaac’s face briefly flickered with surprise before he plastered his usual sneer back in place.  “Are you?” he asked, rhetorically, then wheeled around in front of the group, forcing them to a sudden stop.  “That’s far enough.  What do you want?”

“I heard you say something about Stiles?” Allison interjected, before anyone could answer.

Isaac’s walls instantly went back up.  Scott seemed to notice, momentarily pressing his lips together in annoyance before speaking.

“Someone snatched him,” Scott explained, desperation colouring his voice.  “We were at the high school, and he just vanished.”

“And this is our problem because…?”

Frustration was quickly turning to anger, and Scott clearly didn’t trust himself to speak.

Derek hesitated, wishing he was anywhere else. Isaac’s resentment was broadcast through the set of his jaw, the hardness to his eyes, the way his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, and now it was time to pay the price.  He wasn’t going to help – not him, anyway. 

Scott somehow hadn’t noticed, though, and was waiting for him to speak up and make their case, so Derek sighed and rested on his heels as he tried to figure out the best approach.

“Look, I know you don’t like me,” he started, choosing his words carefully and making sure to look Isaac directly in the eyes, “and I know you have no reason to help me.  But this isn’t about me.  There’s a human teenager being held hostage, and if we don’t do something he’ll almost certainly be killed.”

Isaac cocked a derisive eyebrow.  “He’s no human.  He’ll probably just blow the place up and walk right out.”

“Scott says he’s burned out.  He won’t be destroying anything for a while.”

Isaac blinked, but recovered quickly.  “Even if that’s true, what’s your plan, exactly?  Walk into a building filled with armed superhumans and hope no one notices?”

“More or less,” Derek replied, before Scott had a chance to deny it.  He was rewarded with startled glances from all three teens, and he shrugged helplessly.  “Unless you have a better idea?”

Allison paled, and Isaac turned to Scott with a disdained twist of his lips.  “And you’re going along with this?  You’re not that dumb, McCall.”

Scott hesitated, before imitating Derek with a shrug of his own.  “I’d do the same for you.  Or any one of us.”

“But Stiles _isn’t_ one of us!” Isaac exploded, for the first time actually sounding angry.  “You’ve known him less than a month!”

“So?” Scott shouted.  He had apparently reached his limit, and his limbs shook as he stepped into Isaac’s space.  “He’s still a _person_ , and none of you seem to –”

“Scott, stop,” Derek ordered.  He dropped a hand to the boy’s shoulder and had to push several times before he backed off.  “This was always a long shot.  Isaac’s allowed to say no, and now they know where we’ll be if something happens.  Let’s go.”

 “Oh, you’re leaving.  What a surprise.”  Isaac was clearly aiming for an icy tone, but the effect was ruined by the waver of his voice.  “Guess people don’t really change.”

Derek ground his teeth, prodding Scott back toward the building before he lost his grip on his own temper.  He had enough insight to know that was the last thing they needed.

But then Allison ran to catch up to them, her dark hair bouncing behind her and her jaw set with determination.  “Wait!” she called out.  “Let me grab my crossbow first.”

“Allison, no!” 

“What?  No, stop!”

Isaac and Scott’s protests blended together into an incoherent mess, but the message was crystal clear.  Allison’s eyes flashed, and she pulled to a halt, planting her feet shoulder width apart and resting her fists on her hips.  “What, am I not invited?” she asked, although it was less of a question and more of a challenge.

“Allison, don’t be stupid,” Isaac blurted out.  Instant regret passed across his face as the huntress turned her glare on him, but he stood his ground nonetheless.  “This isn’t going to be a long-distance battle.  You can’t take on werewolves hand-to-hand.”

“I’ve kicked your ass before, haven’t I?” Allison countered blithely, before rounding on Scott.  “And you came here asking for help.  I’m helping.  End of story.”

Scott’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and Derek groaned internally.  He was going to have to step in.  Again.  He briefly wondered if Satomi ever had to deal with this crap, before immediately discarding the notion as laughable. 

“Isaac’s right,” he finally said, pinning Allison with a sharp glance.  “You might be a good shot with the bow, but that doesn’t mean squat in close quarters.  Stay here, help your friends.”

“Scott should stay too,” Isaac spoke up from behind.  He had found his footing again, his voice much steadier than it had been for the entire conversation.  “Derek, come on.  You can’t drag him into this.”

“Excuse me?” Scott spluttered.  “This is my decision.”

“Oh, please.  Like it was your decision to stay at the Hale house? You’re under Derek’s thumb, and we all know it.”

Derek’s lips twisted.  His anger was never far from the surface, and he actually thought he’d done a remarkable job of keeping it controlled this far.  But now his control was starting to slip, driven away but that annoying itch that was once again making itself known.  They were wasting time.  “Fine, whatever.  Scott, stay here.”

Scott glared.  “Are you kidding? I’m not leaving Stiles, or you.”

Isaac snorted and deliberately shifted into an arrogant slouch.  “You should really reconsider, dude.  Your alpha wouldn’t give two shits about abandoning you.”

Something inside Derek snapped.  White hot anger flashed through his nerves, and in less than a second he was looming over Isaac, crimson eyes burning.  “Say that again,” he growled.

Isaac pressed his lips together in a firm line.  “I don’t follow your orders anymore, Derek.”

“You think I _wanted_ to leave you?” Derek yelled, and now the dam really had burst.  His carefully-built walls crumbled, and the words poured out of him in a flood.  “You were supposed to meet up with us down the road!  By the time I realised you weren’t coming, they’d already shipped you off.  Do you honestly think I didn’t try to find you?”

“I _know_ you didn’t!” Isaac shouted.  His face was bone-white, his hands trembling, his nostrils flaring with fury.   He’d been holding this in for a while.  Months.  Years.  “You never came, not when they held us in cages, not when they dumped us in here.  And then when you finally arrived, you holed up in the Preserve and pretended we never existed.  Well, guess what, Derek?  We do exist.  You _made_ us this way.  If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even _be_ here right now!”

The words rang in the air, echoed off the brick buildings, pierced Derek’s heart and froze his blood in his veins.

Derek didn’t move.  He didn’t breathe.  He wasn’t sure he remembered how.

And then a warm hand closed over his forearm, and he was back inside the building before he even realised he’d moved. 

“That’s right, just keep walking,” Scott was mumbling quietly beside him.  “Let’s just go.”

Derek had never agreed with a sentiment more in his life.


	17. Full Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update since I really enjoyed writing this chapter and didn’t want to make you wait.
> 
> That being said, the remaining updates will likely be a bit slower (a few weeks between each one) since I’ve officially run out of all my pre-written material and, coincidentally, my toddler has decided to stop napping. Woo.  I will try to get them up as soon as possible, though.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read, commented and/or subscribed.  It really does make my day to hear your thoughts. xx

“Relax, Liam,” Scott soothed.  Despite his tone, his shoulder were tense and his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel as he turned into the driveway.  “You’ve been fine for months - you’ve got this.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Liam sighed.  “I guess I’m just a little on edge.  Better safe than sorry, right?”

Scott frowned.  Something was off about Liam – he was huddled in the passenger seat, head bowed and gaze fixed firmly on his feet, and his voice was oddly high-pitched and rapid.  Strangely, his scent was absolutely drenched with anxiety.

It would have been enough to make Scott jittery on a good day, and today definitely hadn’t been a good day.  Hadn’t been a good few weeks if he was being honest, so he was just about ready to grab Liam by the shoulders and demand that he explain himself.

But, no.  He might be Liam’s alpha, but the younger boy still had a right to privacy.  He had to trust that Liam would open up when he was ready.

Scott realised he was grinding his teeth, and he forced himself to relax.   “True,” he agreed.  He parked the car, then palmed the keys and reached for the door.  “Let’s get you set up.”

The evening breeze was cool against his face, tendrils of air tickling his cheeks and playing with his hair.  Scott paused just outside the car, taking a moment to scent the fresh air before lifting his gaze to the round, full moon.  It was hanging low in the night sky, just visible over the lake house shingles.

The moonbeams touched his skin, and something stirred in response.  Something animalistic, a force rippling just beneath the surface, sending his hair on end and his heart beating faster.  It pulled at him, urging him to just let go, to run, to hunt, to fight.

For the first time in years, he almost found it tempting.  But his beta’s anxiety was intensifying by the minute, sending wave after wave of heavy fear to hit Scott’s nose, so he shrugged it off with only a little regret.  He tucked his keys into his pocket, then dropped a hand to Liam’s shoulder to gently steer him inside. 

The lights were on, but that wasn’t unexpected.  Lydia had insisted on being there whenever they used the house for supernatural shenanigans – _I don’t trust you,_ she had said, bluntly, when Stiles first suggested she could stay home.  _If you break a hundred-dollar vase, I want to know where to send the bill_ – and Scott figured she would bring Malia as well.  The girls had become much closer since Kira had left, which was something Scott probably should be grateful for but mostly just found terrifying. 

Sure enough, they were huddled on the sofa when Scott and Liam entered the room, heads together in a whispered discussion that halted as soon as they realised they weren’t alone.

Which was kind of rude, actually.

Scott frowned, irritation making his skin itch.  “Hi,” he drawled, pointedly.  “Are you here to help or watch?”

Malia’s eyes narrowed, but whatever she was going to say was lost when Lydia squeezed her arm in warning. 

“We’re here to help,” the banshee replied. “The basement’s ready to go.”

“Good.” 

Scott noticed Liam shooting him a startled glance, but he ignored it.  So he wasn’t in the mood for small talk, was that such a big deal?  It wasn’t like he was attacking anyone or conspiring behind their backs like the girls seemed to be.  Hell, Malia was always blunt to the point of being rude, and no one seemed to care when she did it.  He wasn’t a saint, and Scott was a little sick of everyone expecting him to act like one. 

He was grinding his teeth again.  Scott growled softly, giving himself a shake before making his way to the stairs on the other side of the room.  The couch creaked loudly as the girls stood to follow – in fact, everything was loud, and he flinched as the heavy banging of footsteps chafed his sensitive ears.

Thankfully, the basement wasn’t far.  The hinges creaked as he tore the door open, and he had to hold back from stomping petulantly down the stairs.  It was tempting – rather than settling with time, his irritation seemed to be growing exponentially – but he clenched his hand into a fist instead and made it down to the concrete floor without incident, flicking on the light switch as he went.

Then he stopped and stared in confusion.

The restraints that Malia had always used were gone.  He was expecting that – Stiles had told him that she had torn right through them the night she finally gained control – but the new setup was overkill to the extreme.  Instead of padded leather, there was a set of reinforced steel handcuffs alongside a heavy chain pooled next to a thick, load-bearing column.  And on the floor surrounding the area were two nearly-complete circles of –

“Is that mountain ash?” Scott asked, stunned.

Lydia and Malia stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the bottom of the stairs, faces set with determination.  Liam was cringing against the wall beside them.  None of them responded.

Scott focussed on the weakest link.  “Liam?” he prodded slowly.  “What’s going on?”

The beta glanced up at him with a guilty expression.  “Please don’t be mad.”

Realisation was dawning, and with it came a swell of irritation.  Actually, no – not irritation, Scott realised, lip curling as he seethed silently – it was anger.  He was angry, and he had every right to be. They had lied to him, manipulated him…heat rushed to his face as he curled his fingers into fists, his veins thrumming with fury. 

“Are you kidding me?” Scott hissed, baring his teeth.  He stepped forward, taking a selfish pleasure in seeing all three of them flinch at the movement.  “You want me to get in there?  You tried to _trick_ me into there?”

Malia was the first to recover.  “Scott, listen to yourself,” she growled, stepping forward so that she was half in front of Lydia.  “You’re not in control.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.  Maybe we should chain _you_ up, before you kill the only family you have left.”

The response was instantaneous.  Malia’s eyes flashed blue and claws sprouted from her hands.  She roared, surging forward in a powerful leap, only to crash into the ground as Liam tackled her from behind.

“Get off me!” Malia snarled, thrashing wildly beneath Liam’s weight.

Liam grit his teeth and pressed his knees harder into the concrete.  “Calm down,” he hissed, leaning forward to tighten his hold on her wrists.  “We can’t handle both of you.”

Surprisingly, his words got through.  Malia stopped struggling, although her chest still heaved and her claws remained bared, and a moment later she nodded.

“I’m okay,” she muttered.  “Let me up.”

Liam hesitated, but cautiously eased his hold.  When she didn’t immediately try to escape, he released a relieved sigh and let go altogether, clambering gracelessly to his feet.  Malia followed suit, a little more slowly, all the while glaring daggers at Scott with bright blue eyes. 

Scott smirked.  The hair on his face tickled at the movement, his claws pricking into his palms, and he relaxed into a broad-based stance.  “I think you just proved my point,” he observed.

Malia’s lips thinned but, surprisingly, she didn’t move.  “You don’t have a point,” she scowled instead, before pointing at the opposite corner of the basement.  “I know my control’s shaky.  That’s why I’ve got my own set of chains over there.”

Scott raised an eyebrow, following her arm to see that she was, in fact, telling the truth.  Her cuffs were skinnier than the ones intended for him, and there was no mountain ash, but they were still there.

“Better get in there then,” Scott remarked, before pushing past her to the stairs.

His path was blocked by Lydia, who stepped sideways to place herself directly before the staircase.  Her face was pale, her lips trembling, but she still managed to square her shoulders and plant her feet.

“Move,” Scott ordered, narrowing his eyes into a glare.  He could feel it, now, the tugging of the moon above him, calling him onward, urging him to run.  It must be climbing higher in the sky, and he longed to see it.  “I won’t say it again.”

Lydia shook her head.  “I can’t,” she whispered.  “I know you’re broken up about Stiles – ”

Scott growled and lowered his head, only barely curbing his instinct to throw her bodily of the way.  He leaned forward, preparing to run, and then –

\- and then a wall of noise slammed into him.  Lydia’s mouth was open in a scream, her hands barely a foot away from his face, and the sound tore into him.  It assaulted his ears and flayed his skin, sending him skidding several feet backward before he dug in his heels and stood firm. 

It went on.  And on.  The seconds drew out interminably long, and Scott leaned forward, bracing himself, ignoring the feeling of blood trickling down his face, turning just enough to see Liam and Malia crumpled on the floor behind him.

And then, finally, it stopped.  The sudden silence was crushing, a thick blanket covering the room, and Scott had to remind himself to breathe.   He stumbled a step before catching his balance, then raised his head to see Lydia still standing before the bottom step, her arms outstretched, her green eyes wide and fearful.

He blinked.  Stared at Lydia, then at Liam and Malia, who were cautiously pulling their hands away from blood-streaked ears, then down at his own trembling fingers.

“Oh, god.”  Scott lurched backward, shaking his head repeatedly as though trying to rid himself of his growing horror.  The anger was gone along with the pull, leaving him horribly clear-headed.  “Oh, god, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean…”

“Scott, stop.”  The voice came from behind him – Malia, he realised.  He spun on his heel, another apology already spilling from his lips, but she raised her hand to cut him off.  “Save it for later.  We need to get you sorted before you lose control again.  Me too, for that matter.”

“I – okay.”  Scott walked unsteadily toward the pole, then sank down to the ground.  He held his hands out, listlessly, and closed his eyes while Liam clicked the cuffs into place and wound the heavy chain around his chest. 

He heard the younger boy hesitate before him, shifting his weight from one foot to another.  But it only lasted a moment before Liam walked away, presumably to help Malia into her own chains.

Lydia was still there, though.  She wasn’t moving, so Scott sighed and reluctantly opened his eyes, unsurprised to find her crouched directly before him, hands hovering uncertainly over the still-broken ring of ash.

Scott cocked his head as he stared.  “You should hurry up and close that.”  He wasn’t exaggerating – the temporary relief brought on by Lydia’s scream was rapidly fading, the familiar pull once again tugging at his heart.

Lydia scanned his face.  Something must have shown, since she pressed her lips together and nodded before smoothing the mountain ash into place.  “You’ll be okay,” she muttered quietly.

Scott huffed, glancing from her to Malia, who was now snarling ferociously at Liam.  She must have been holding on by her fingertips, he realised, and the thought was more fascinating than painful. 

“I understand why _she’s_ struggling,” he commented with a nod in Malia’s direction, “but Stiles isn’t my anchor.  I _know_ I’ll be fine.  These really aren’t necessary, you know.”  He rattled his handcuffs in Lydia’s direction.

The banshee’s expression slammed shut.  She scrabbled backward, hurriedly closing the second circle in a quick movement, then crouched outside it to stare at Scott with wide eyes. 

Scott lowered his head, snarling softly.  She thought she could lock him up?  Restrain him?  He was a wolf, and he was made for hunting, and no _banshee_ was going to keep him from that.

He howled, and across the room the coyote howled in response, and he thrashed against the heavy chain holding him down.

And so the night began.

* * *

Stiles didn’t know why they bothered to blindfold him - he knew exactly where he was.

The swish of the main doors was instantly recognisable, as was the slight echo of their footsteps as they pushed him, stumbling, into the building.  He could picture the path like a map as they propelled him along – the right turn, then a long corridor, then a left and another right – so he clenched his jaw in anticipation when, sure enough, he found himself pushed onto an uncomfortably hard seat as cool metal cuffs locked tightly around his wrists.  

He was inside the Sheriff’s Station.

In the holding cells, specifically, with a cloth bag over his head and his arms shackled to the ground.

Fucking perfect.

He hadn’t even seen the person who grabbed him.  Logic dictated that it was someone associated with Peter, but that was about as much as Stiles had been able to deduce.  He had tried to ask during the bumpy drive, half-shouting in what he hoped was the right direction while desperately trying not to faceplant into the bed of the truck, but for all his efforts he was only rewarded with a grunt and a threatening prick of sharp claws against his neck.

So that was the end of that.

Stiles wriggled uncomfortably, as much as he could in his restraints.  The shackles were drawn uncomfortably tight, forcing him into an awkward hunch with his hands pulled down between his knees.  His nose itched, his bladder was becoming uncomfortably full, and, worst of all, the lack of vision was sending his anxiety into the stratosphere. 

And, of course, the spark was gone.  Typical Stilinski luck.  His chest was cold and empty, without so much as a flicker of the fire that had spilled from him only that morning. 

_Well done, Stiles,_ he thought sardonically.  _Empty the tank on your friends in the middle of a warzone.  And you’re supposed to be the smart one._

Derision blurred into hopelessness, and he bit his lip to hold in a moan. 

He needed a plan.  Busting out of here clearly wasn’t on the table - but that had never been an option before, either, so he could work around that. 

Plan B would be to wait until his spark came back.  He was fairly sure that was going to happen eventually, but whether it would be hours or days or weeks was less certain, and anything could happen in that time.

Plan C, then, would be to wait for Scott.

Or for Derek, he supposed.

He twisted his lips, remembering Derek’s worried frown and twitching hands at the school.  Clearly, something had happened to the alpha since their last encounter, and although Stiles was pretty sure that was a good thing…it was just so odd.

Grumpy Derek, he could deal with.  Angry, threatening Derek might be one of the most frustrating people Stiles had ever met, but at least he was recognisable.

Caring, worrying, protective Derek? What.  The.  Hell.

Stiles huffed in annoyance and tried to remember if his own Derek had ever been like that.  He didn’t think so – although, it wasn’t like he’d seen much of him lately.  Scott kept in touch with the older werewolf, but Stiles had barely spoken to him since…what, the alpha pack?

It was a strange thought, but it was probably right, he realised with a pang.  They’d worked together when they realised that Boyd had been captured, and so long as Cora was in town, they crossed paths on a semi-regular basis.

 And then the nogitsune happened.

Derek barely seemed to look at him after that.

This Derek, though.  In this world, where werewolves were known and Dad was dead but Allison was alive and no one understood why he jumped at riddles…this Derek actually seemed to care about him.  Saw him as Pack, even. 

_Maybe_ , a thought struck him seemingly from nowhere, _it wouldn’t be so bad, if you never found a way home._

He froze, mind whirling at the idea, an imaging slowly forming of -

\- a loud _clang_ suddenly reverberated through the room, interrupting Stiles’ thoughts and making him jump before the chains on his wrists dragged him back down the seat. 

The sound bounced off concrete walls, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.  There was nothing else to go on – no footsteps, no scrape of clothing, no heavy breathing.

Just the metallic clang of a hand smacking against bars.

The urge to call out was overwhelming, but Stiles bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and forced himself to remain silent.  No need to clue the stranger into his discomfort.

The noise faded into silence, air thick with tension.  Until, finally, it was broken by a soft chuckle, mere feet away from Stiles’ face, and a familiar silken voice.

“I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

Stiles’ heart dropped into his boots.  His shoulders slumped, and he finally released his lip to reply through gritted teeth.  “Peter.  It just _had_ to be you.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Stiles didn’t need to see Peter’s face to picture his raised eyebrows, the surprised tilt of his head.

“So you _do_ know me.  I’m flattered.”  The sentence was punctuated by soft footsteps, then sudden, glaring light as the bag was ripped from Stiles’ head.  He blinked rapidly, squinting at the image of two Peters slowly merging into one.  The werewolf was standing over him, peering down with curious blue eyes.  “I apologise for my nephew’s rudeness – I’m afraid I can’t say the same about you.”

“You watch too many Disney movies,” Stiles muttered.  He leaned forward slightly to brace his elbows on his thighs and took the opportunity to glance around the room.  It was stripped completely bare save for the three caged holding cells, of which he was in the one furthest from the door.  “You know there’s no one else here, right?  You can drop the show.”

“And what show is that?”  Peter’s tone was uncharacteristically restrained, his face smooth.

“The cartoon villain thing.  You know – you act all intimidating, then you low-key threaten me, and then if that doesn’t do the trick you outright threaten me.  It’s getting old.”

Peter paused, his eyes narrowing minutely.  “An interesting statement, since we’ve never officially met.”

_Oh, right.  Shit._

Stiles flinched, trying his best not to squirm beneath Peter’s analytical gaze.  He’d screwed up, he was sure. Peter wouldn’t just let this go – he would pry, and experiment, and find a way to twist the whole situation into his favour. 

He needed to start using his brain.  Now.

“Not really,” he blustered, turning his flinch into a judgemental frown.  “You’re not the first asshole I’ve come across.  And then there’s the whole the whole burning down the gym thing – that was straight out of the supervillain textbook, you know.  If your goal was to piss off a group of unlikely heroes so that they overcome their differences and band together in a heart-warming montage to achieve a unifying goal – congratulations, you may have actually achieved that.”

“You talk a lot,” Peter observed, completely ignoring Stiles’ bait.  His brow was furrowed, his curiosity slowly creeping toward confusion.  “What does Derek see in you?”  His hand darted forward, long fingers clamping tight around Stiles’ chin, and he jerked Stiles’ head back painfully.  “I hear he’s leaving the bench for you – why?”

Stiles’ jaw creaked beneath his grip.  Between that and the handcuffs, keeping his hands locked between his knees, he was held fast in an agonisingly unnatural position.  He didn’t even have room to squirm.

It was one of his nightmares come to life.  The last time he had been this tightly restrained, a hoarse voice had whispered dreadful promises while Oliver readied a drill.  

He wanted to scream.  He wanted to cry.  He wanted to light that fire in his chest and blast Peter into smithereens.

Instead, he took a deep breath and made sure to look Peter directly in the eye.  “I suspect it’s my winning personality.”

Peter’s face contorted with ire.  His grip tightened and Stiles’ jaw screamed, but the teenager held firm.  He bit his tongue to hold back a cry, channelling his pain into a hot glare.

Then, the pressure vanished.  Peter’s hand dropped, his head tilted, and he stepped back to eye Stiles with an unreadable expression.

“You know, I’m starting to see the appeal,” he murmured.  “What’s your name?”

Stiles’ glare intensified.  “Why the _hell_ should I tell you anything?”

“Because I want to know,” Peter replied immediately.  A faint smile played across his lips, sending a wave of dread across Stiles’ stomach.  “And I have a way of getting what I want.”

Stiles scoffed loudly.  “So, what, you’re going to torture me?”

He immediately regretted it, as Peter pursed his lips thoughtfully. 

“I could,” the werewolf mused.  His gaze sharpened, sweeping over Stiles’ thin shoulders and long limbs.  “I suspect you’d break rather easily.”

Despite his best efforts, Stiles still shivered at the words.  He never claimed to have a high pain threshold, and it was through nothing but sheer luck that he’d never been put to the test.  Sure, he’d been bruised over the last few years.  He still had vivid memories of Gerard punching him the face, and much fuzzier memories of being knocked unconscious by trees and werewolves and chimeras and hellhounds.

But he’d never been tortured.  Not like Scott, back in Mexico.  Not like Erica and Boyd, in the Argent’s basement.

God, this was going to suck.

Something of his thought process must have shown on his face, because Peter smirked, amusement glinting in his blue eyes.  “You’re smarter than you look, aren’t you?” he chuckled.  “You’re putting on a brave front, but you know as well as I do that it’s futile.”

He leaned closer so that his face was directly in front of Stiles, then cocked an eyebrow.  “So, come on.  Make life easier for both of us.  Tell me your name.”

Stiles’ nostrils flared.  “Bite me,” he retorted, straight-faced.

For a moment, Peter didn’t move a muscle. 

Then he snorted, a genuine laugh falling from his lips as he drew back to his full height.  “You’re going to regret that,” he commented, lightly.

Stiles didn’t even have time to react before the werewolf moved, too fast to follow.  One second, he was standing in front of Stiles, watching him carefully, the next he was beside him, a hand poised behind his neck, claws pricking against his skin. 

“I wish you had taken the easy option,” Peter lamented.

Then his claws pierced Stiles’ spine, and the world vanished.

* * *

He was five years old, and he was standing in a playground.  A red-haired boy rode a nearby swing, little legs pumping as he threw himself higher and higher, eyes shining with excitement.  Two girls straddled the see-saw, squealing each time they reached the peak and bounced into the air.  He turned left to see a gaggle of children clambering up a metal frame, taking turns to slide as quickly as they could back down to the ground.

All around him were the sounds of play, of laughter, of fun.

Stiles swallowed, his heart fluttering with fear.  He tightened his grip on the warm hand enclosing his own and was slightly reassured when the other person squeezed back.  She released him a second later in favour of kneeling before him and reaching out to gently tilt his head toward her.  Her hair was a rich brown, framing kind eyes and a mouth that always seemed ready to smile.

“It’ll be okay, Mischief,” Mum murmured, tweaking his nose playfully.  “You’ll make new friends in no time.”

Stiles shuffled closer, glancing doubtfully at the playground before responding.  “I want to go home.”

A sigh.  Not an irritated sigh, as he was so accustomed to these days, but a sigh that was full of worry, of understanding, of kindness, and then she wrapped an arm around his shoulders to pull him into a soft hug. “I know, baby,” she murmured, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head.  “I know it’s scary.  But you have to try.”

Stiles sniffed.  He twisted a hand into her shirt, as though she would be forced to stay if he just held on tight enough.

He knew that was nothing more than a wish, though, so he was more resigned than disappointed when she carefully but firmly untangled his fingers.

“Look, Mieczyslaw,” she said, nudging his head with her own and pointing at the sandbox, which was nestled away in the far corner of the playground.  It was mostly empty, save for a small olive-skinned boy who was busily digging a moat around his half-finished sandcastle.  “Why don’t you head over and say hi?”

* * *

 He was eight, and his schoolwork was boring him to tears.

They were supposed to be learning long division, and his teacher had gone through half-a-dozen examples on the board before handing out worksheets.  Stiles had finished his in minutes, having already taught it to himself during a restless night last week, which left him with nothing to do but play with his pencil and idly tap his foot against the carpet.  

Bored, he turned to his left.  Scott was sitting at the next desk, a little line forming in the middle of his forehead as he stared intently at the fourth problem and hesitantly put pencil to paper.

Stiles sighed and kicked the ground, a little too hard.  He knew from experience that there was no point trying to talk to Scott when he was like this.

He let his attention drift to the rest of the class, setting his annoyance aside in favour of a distraction.  Most people, like Scott, were hunched over their desks, faces scrunched in varying degrees of concentration as they tried to work through the questions.  A few had their hands in the air, waiting on the teacher to help them navigate whatever problem had tripped them up.

The new girl, however, was an exception.  He pursed his lips, impressed at the sight of the neat pencil-marks covering her paper, visible even from where Stiles was sitting a few rows over.  Her head was bowed, her strawberry-blond hair partially obscuring her face despite being neatly tucked behind a headband with a pink bow that matched her impeccably clean dress. 

She must have learned this already, Stiles reasoned.  She had only moved to Beacon Hills last week, according to the principal when he stood beside her at the front of the room on Monday.  She had seemed nervous, then, her cheeks slightly flushed and her green eyes studying the floor, avoiding the curious stares of her new classmates.

Stiles had felt for her, at first.  But by the time lunch rolled around she had found her footing, seamlessly slipping into the group of girls that included Michelle and Janey and Katie.  Michelle, who laughed at his second-hand clothing.  Janey, who called him _spaz_ and _psycho._ Katie, who smirked when she caught him looking, then loudly instructed the new girl to stay away from the weird kid who had to be medicated just so he could sit still.

So, Stiles was surprised to see that she had finished her work so quickly.  Her new friends certainly hadn’t – a quick glance confirmed that they had abandoned their sheets in favour of whispering conspiratorially to each other. Stiles couldn’t hear their words, but he would bet they were gossiping – and, sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed when they suddenly broke into giggles, stealing furtive glances at one of the quieter boys in the corner.

The new girl must have been listening, because she glanced over as well before flicking her gaze back to her friends. Stiles’ head tilted in surprise as her eyes subtly narrowed, her lips tightened, and her forehead creased in annoyance.

Then the other girls turned toward her and the new girl’s brow smoothed in an instant, her chin rising as a smug smirk played on her lips.  She leaned forward, and whatever she said must have been wicked, because this time the girls laughed loud enough that the teacher noticed, shooting upright to shush them from across the room.

The girls turned back to their worksheets, smothering their giggles and picking up their pencils. 

They never saw the new girl’s smirk fade into a disgusted grimace.

But Stiles did.

* * *

He was nine, and he couldn’t sleep.

The room wasn’t completely dark, the moon sending shadows twisting and dancing across his bedroom walls, but it was enough that he couldn’t make out the hands on his clock.  He figured it wasn’t too late, though, since Dad was still up: through the floorboards, he could hear the heavy thud of footsteps against carpet.

Stiles sniffed, rolled over in bed, and closed his eyes.

Three seconds later, he threw himself onto his back and growled in annoyance.

Screw it.  It just wasn’t going to happen.

He shoved off his blankets and immediately began to shiver in the brisk winter air.  Fortunately, he spotted the sleeve of an oversized hoodie poking out from beneath his bed and he shrugged it on, huddling deep into the fabric for warmth, before stepping across the cluttered floor to his bedroom door.

As soon as he reached the landing, he could make out more signs of life.  Muffled laughter from the TV, the volume turned low for his benefit.  The creak of the sofa.  The clink of glass against glass, and an odd choked gasp.

Stiles tilted his head in curiosity.  What was that?

He took more care than usual on the stairs, not wanting to trip in the darkness, and padded softly to the living room door.  When he reached it, he hesitated, oddly nervous as something fluttered warningly in his chest.

Maybe he _should_ just go back to bed.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, though, the option was taken away.  Something shifted in the darkness, and then a large shadow rose over the couch, silhouetted against the light from the TV, and Stiles gasped even as he stumbled backward in fear.

“Stiles?” the figure grumbled, and Stiles’ breath escaped in a relieved rush.  It was just Dad.  Of course, it was just Dad – who else would it be?  “Go back to bed.”

Stiles straightened, bundling the jacket tighter around his shoulders before shaking his head.  “I can’t sleep.”

He expected his dad to invite him over.  To open his arms for a hug, to pat the couch invitingly, to tousle his hair and assure him everything was okay.

Instead, he stiffened.  He muttered something under his breath, chin jutting outward in frustration, and an acrid scent drifted across the room.

Stiles wet his lips, unsure what to do.  In the end, the cold made his decision for him, seeping through the layers until goosebumps pricked his skin.  He jostled his weight, pursed his lips into a pout, and trotted closer to the couch.  “I’m cold,” he moaned.  He was right next to his dad, now, and he craned his neck to look up at his face, eyes deliberately large.  “Can I stay here?”

Dad’s jaw worked, silently.  He stared blankly at Stiles’ face, eyes unfocussed, and the corners of his lips turned downward.  “You’re supposed to be in bed,” he muttered.

The words sounded funny.  The syllables blurred together, the usual sharp consonants oddly dull.  Stiles squinted, trying to see if there was something wrong with his mouth, but it looked the same as always. 

“I can’t sleep,” Stiles repeated, this time deliberately emphasising the whine in his voice.  He tugged the sleeves of the hoodie over his hands, then darted forward to wrap his arms around Dad’s waist.  “I want to stay with you.”

A sharp intake of breath from overhead was the only warning he had before something jerked on the hood of his jacket, dragging Stiles backward and forcibly breaking his grip. 

“What’s this?” Dad demanded, hotly. 

Stiles blinked, glancing back up at Dad’s face.  His eyes widened in shock: Dad’s blue eyes were blazing, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might break, sheer fury written into every line of his face.

In his surprise, Stiles never answered the question, but it didn’t matter.  His father was already bending over, tugging the zipper of the jacket hard enough that the fabric squeaked in protest.  “Take it _off_ ,” he snarled, as he finally freed the zip and jerked the material open.

“Hey!” Stiles squeaked in protest.  His shoulder twisted painfully, one arm yanked backward as his dad tried to wrestle it out of the sleeve.  “That hurts!” 

Dad didn’t seem to notice.  As soon as the arm was free, he planted a rough hand on Stiles’ shoulder and shoved, hard enough that the boy stumbled and turned.  His dad took advantage of his new vantage point, wrenching the fabric away from Stiles’ back and down his other arm, until finally it came free.

The cold air bit into Stiles’ skin, making him shiver.  He wrapped his arms around his chest, hunching his shoulders protectively, and stared wide-eyed at his dad who was clutching the hoodie as though terrified it would disappear.

The TV show suddenly cut to an ad break, sending white light spilling across the room.  It illuminated Dad’s face – his cheeks oddly red, small beads of sweat crowning his forehead – and the hoodie in his hands, soft and violet and much too large for Stiles’ small frame.

“Why do you have this?”  Dad snapped, far too loud for the quiet hour.

Stiles trembled, and for the first time it wasn’t from the cold.  “It was under my bed,” he whispered, hesitantly.

Dad’s eyes flashed.  “You’ll wreck it.”  He tightened his grip on the fabric, knuckles visibly white even in the poor light.  “You’ll wreck it, and I can’t deal with that right now.  Can’t you just…?”

He trailed off, shaking his head in annoyance, before carefully folding the hoodie and placing it on a nearby cabinet.

Stiles sniffed.  His eyes stung, and he bit down on his lip to keep from crying.  He couldn’t cry; Dad needed him.

It was a vain attempt, though, and within seconds tears were spilling over his eyes to trail salty tracks down his cheeks.  He scrubbed a hand across his face, ducking his head to hide his shame.

Above him, Dad stilled.  Something indecipherable passed over his shadowed face, and then he was on his knees, tugging Stiles into his chest, wrapping one arm around Stiles’ shoulders and tangling the other hand into his hair.

“Shit, I’m sorry, shit,” he muttered, over and over, and on any other night Stiles would have been shocked by the sound of bad words spilling from his father’s lips.  But between the strange smell and the funny-sounding words and the stiff, angry lines, this one aberrance almost went unnoticed.  “I didn’t mean to yell.”

Stiles gasped, a sob breaking out despite his best efforts, and he buried his head deeper into Dad’s chest.  “I’m sorry,” he cried, voice muffled against Dad’s shirt.  “I shouldn’t have worn it.”

The arm on his shoulders tightened to pin Stiles firmly against the older man’s chest, and then he was being lifted off the ground in a way he hadn’t in years.  Dad stepped over to the couch and carefully sat down, rearranging Stiles so that the boy was draped across his lap, head nestled into Dad’s chest and gangly legs spread over the cushions.  Then he dragged a slightly-musty blanket over them both, one hand rubbing firm circles on Stiles’ back.

“You did nothing wrong,” Dad murmured, guilt threading the words.  “I…I overreacted.  I’ve had too much to drink.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of that statement, but he let the darkness swallow the words without comment.  Instead, he mumbled, “I miss her.”

The hand on his back froze, just for a moment, before resuming its steady circles.  “Me too, kid,” Dad sighed.  “I miss her too.”

* * *

The images flew past, one after the other, faster and faster.

He was ten, and the walls were closing in on him, the floor spinning dizzily beneath his feet, and his heart hammered painfully against his ribs. 

He was twelve, and it took everything he had to bite his tongue as Scott cried into his shoulder, repeating the same question over and over.  “ _Why doesn’t he want me?_ ”

He was fourteen, and his arms crossed angrily over his chest, his nostrils flaring and throat burning as he screamed into his father’s face.  “ _You’re NOT HER!  You’ll NEVER be her!_ ”

He was fifteen, and his nerves thrummed with excitement as he told Scott the news: there was a dead body in the woods.

He was sixteen.  _Do you like riddles, Stiles?_

He was seventeen, and his chest was on fire, and the world was disappearing into endless white.

* * *

And then he was nothing.


	18. Into the Wolf's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm back! Sorry about the wait - I really struggled with this chapter and ended up having to take a break for a week or two. But the good news is that I wrote ahead a bit when I got my mojo back, so the next two chapters at least shouldn't be too far away. Hope you enjoy!

“We’ll wait until sunset, then go in from the West.  Use the light to our advantage.” 

Scott nodded.  He rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the knots that had appeared as much from stress as his crouched position.  He was huddled shoulder-to-shoulder with Derek behind a rusty air conditioning unit on a rooftop that gave them a good view of the district.  It also gave them a good view of the Sheriff’s station, although the building itself was still a full block away.  Neither of them had dared go any closer - Peter was bound to have snipers standing watch, and for all their enhanced speed they couldn’t outrun bullets.

“And when we get inside?” Scott prompted.

The question was mostly rhetorical and they both knew it, judging by Derek’s sharp glance.  Even so, the alpha replied, “We take out anyone in our way, and we find Stiles.  Then we run like hell.”

Scott smiled faintly.  “What could go wrong?”

“Well, fuck.  Now you’ve jinxed us.”

Scott jumped at the unexpected voice and by the time he had regained his wits, Derek was already on his feet and facing the newcomer, claws extended and teeth bared. 

It was an impressively fast reaction and Scott took a moment to gape, awed, before slowly climbing to his own feet.  There was no real rush to his movements – Jackson’s voice, after all, was instantly recognisable.   

The blonde looked almost relaxed as he stood next to Allison at the opposite end of the roof.  He lounged on his heels, fingers curled loosely at his sides and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.  But there was a hardness to his gaze as it slowly traced over Derek’s crimson eyes and rigid shoulders.

Beside him, Allison was unusually tense.  Her boots were planted shoulder-width apart, twin patches of pink coloured her cheeks, and her right hand hovered over the silver daggers hanging from her belt.  When she noticed Scott staring, she defiantly raised her chin.  “What?” she demanded hotly.  “I told you I wanted to help.  So, here I am."

Scott’s stomach lurched nauseatingly.  A strange protective urge clawed at the inside of his ribs, and he considered and discarded half-a-dozen replies while the pink flush of her cheeks deepened to an angry red.  Finally, he said, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Allison’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 

Well, shit.

Desperately, Scott took a deep breath and tried to explain, the words falling out of him in a rush.  “I’m not trying to be patronising -”

“Then don’t,” Allison cut across him, sharply.  “I can take care of myself.”

_Yes, but I’m pretty sure the you from Stiles’ world thought the same thing._

Something must have shown on his face, since Allison’s angry expression melted into something more thoughtful.  Rather than relief, thought, Scott felt his panic rise a little at the sight.  He _really_ did not want to have this discussion in front of Derek and Jackson.

Speaking of whom: “Why is _he_ here?” Scott blurted out, jerking his thumb in the blonde’s direction.

The boy in question heaved an annoyed sigh and threw his hands up in the air.  “Wow, what a welcome McCall.  Seriously, you and Derek deserve each other.”

Derek growled from Scott’s left.  He glanced over at the alpha, jolting in surprise when he realised the older man hadn’t relaxed an inch.  His teeth were still bared, his crimson eyes burned like coals, and the air itself seemed to drop several degrees as everyone turned toward him. 

“Answer the question,” Derek ordered, curtly.

Jackson’s smirk vanished almost instantly.  “I _came_ here to help you assholes,” he snapped, “but I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

Somehow, Derek’s expression darkened even further.  “Better you have them here than inside the building.  Go back to the school, Jackson.”

Jackson snorted.  “Just leave, huh?  Classic Derek Hale advice.”

Derek’s head snapped upward, his eyes wide, and for just a moment Jackson’s façade broke.  Hurt and fury tore at his face as he fought to meet Derek’s glare head-on. 

Scott’s breath caught.  He knew there was tension between Derek and his former betas – anyone with eyes knew that – but Derek had been successfully avoiding them for months without issue and, until today, the teenagers didn’t seem remotely interesting in trying to hash it out.  Were they really going to do this here, now?

The answer seemed to be yes, as tension rippled off the two werewolves in waves.  Derek’s lips peeled back in a snarl and Jackson’s hands clenched and unclenched, and both of the leaned forward as though preparing to attack.  Allison shifted slightly, preparing to intervene, and Scott whipped around to catch her eye.  _Don’t,_ he thought at her, desperately.  _This has been a long time coming.  Just give them a chance to figure it out._

Luck was on his side as she caught his expression and stilled.  Her lips thinned in disapproval, but she remained silent as she turned back to the werewolves.

“I never abandoned you.  You know that.”  Derek’s voice was strangled, forced out through gritted teeth.  Beads of sweat formed on his brow. 

Jackson’s hands clenched again, anger briefly drowning out the hurt.   “Do I? You never tried to get us out of here.”

“I did, but there was never a good opportunity.  I would have been killed if I hadn’t forced myself to leave.”

For a moment, Jackson’s fury deepened, frank disbelief twisting his features, and Scott leaned forward, readying himself to leap into the fray if needed.

But then something changed.  Jackson’s head jerked sideways, his locked gaze breaking away from Derek to instead stare in the direction of the school. A soft noise escaped his mouth – if it was anyone else, Scott might have almost thought it was a sob – and when he turned back to the others his anger was apparently gone, replaced by a steady determination.

Scott’s shoulders snapped back automatically.  It was the same expression Jackson wore before every lacrosse game, when he would lead the team to victory no matter the odds.  There was a reason Jackson had been the captain for so many years.  Asshole or not, the guy was passionate, and he never backed down from a challenge.

“Look, this isn’t about us,” Jackson said, evenly.  His voice was a little tight, but there was no other sign of the turmoil that had plastered his expression mere moments ago.  The mask was firmly back in place.  “This is about the kids,” he continued, and, oh.

Well. 

Now, Scott felt like an ass.

Jackson’s relationship with the kids was one of those unspoken things.  It wasn’t that it happened gradually – quite the opposite, in fact – but the former lacrosse champion had a habit of snarling at anyone who seemed ready to broach the topic, so Scott had learned early on to pretend that it didn’t exist.

But everyone knew that Jackson had the kids’ backs.  When Satomi first formed her camp, months before Scott and Derek were dumped back in town, everyone had pitched in to help.  Isaac and Boyd helped organise the guards, Allison helped with rationing, and Jackson…well, Jackson had taken it upon himself to advocate for the kids.  Loudly and relentlessly.  It was because of Jackson that they were always fed before everyone else.  That there were always at least three adults supervising their play.  That they got the warmest blankets, and the comfiest pillows.

Even Scott, who had never visited the camp until a week ago, knew of Jackson’s protectiveness.  Despite Derek’s heated glares and annoyed grunts, he had made a point of checking in with Allison and Isaac at least once a fortnight since arriving in Beacon Hills and although he hadn’t originally believed them, they had both sworn up and down that it was the truth.

Jackson would do anything for those kids.  Even, apparently, let go of a year-long grudge against Derek.

The thought filled Scott with dread. Uneasily, he asked, “What does this have to do with the kids?”  

Jackson pinned him with a derisive look.  “You of all people should be able to figure that out."

Scott shook his head, blankly. 

‘I don’t give two shits about Stiles,” Jackson explained, and Scott took a moment to wonder if the guy would ever stop giving him whiplash.  “That’s not me being a dick - I barely know him,” Jackson continued.  “Ordinarily, if you wanted to go on a suicide mission to rescue him, I’d tell you to leave me out of it.”

Derek’s lips pulled back in a snarl, and Scott’s heart skipped a beat.  Between Stiles, Boyd, and Isaac, Derek had already been stretched well past his limit today, so if _Scott_ getting emotional whiplash from this conversation…subtly, Scott motioned Jackson to hurry up and get to the point.  He didn’t _think_ Derek would lash out at Jackson, but he didn’t want to put the man’s restraint to the test.

Jackson frowned at the gesture, then glanced at Derek and stiffened momentarily.  “The thing is,” he continued, and if his words suddenly sounded hurried then Scott was willing to give him a pass, “I stopped home an hour ago and discovered that I no longer have a kitchen.  Or a front door.  And I don’t even want to know what happened to the sitting room.”

“Oh,” Scott breathed, glancing confusedly at Allison.  “You didn’t tell him?”

The huntress shook her head.  “Too many prying ears.  We didn’t get the chance.”

“Yeah, well. Now I know: Stiles did it.” 

“He didn’t mean to –”

“He blew up my kitchen,” Jackson interrupted, cutting across Scott’s defensive tone with a sharp one of his own. “And if you’re trying to tell me that was an accident, McCall – honestly, that makes it even worse.”

“What’s your point, Jackson?”  Derek’s voice was harsh, his brow ridged and shoulders tensed.  He was still balanced on the precipice, just barely holding back.  Waiting, listening for the moment that would send him over the edge.

Jackson, it seemed, had just the words.  “My point is that, right now, Peter has control of somebody who accidentally exploded a room with his mind.  Do you really want to see what Peter can make him do _on purpose?_ ”

The words sent fear lancing through Scott’s entire body, jerking him upright as chills rippled down his spine.  He hadn’t thought about that, and judging Derek’s sudden slack jaw and pale face, he wasn’t the only one. 

The tension from earlier was completely gone, replaced by a smothering, desperate fear.

Derek was the first to move.  He pulled himself upright, finally dropping the shift to stare determinedly at Jackson, Scott and Allison.  “No, I don’t,” he said, grimly.  “Jackson’s right – we need to get him out, for everyone’s sake.  Let’s do this.”

* * *

 

It wasn’t the longest night of her life, but it was pretty damn close.

The howling had gone on for hours.  And the yelling.  And the name-calling, the snide remarks, the snarling.

Liam had left before the clock even struck midnight.  He hadn’t wanted to leave her alone, but the howls were tearing into him, his eyes flickering between yellow and blue, and he had turned to Lydia with a desperate, wordless plea.

“Go,” she had said, curtly, and in under a second he was off, bolting up the stairs and out the door, getting away as far as possible from his alpha’s animalistic howl.

Which meant that she had been left to guard two deranged werecreatures for the rest of the night by herself.

Fun times.

She hadn’t dared leave the basement, too worried that one of them would break out of their chains and attack the other, so she planted herself on the top step and buried her face in her hands, wishing she was anywhere else while they strained and yelped and tore at their restraints. 

Until, finally, it stopped.

It happened gradually.  The howls faded to moans, thrashing faded to twitching, and eventually silence fell over the basement and she stood, braced herself against the wall with one hand, and cautiously headed down to the landing.

She saw Malia first.  The girl was slumped against the wall with her eyes closed, but her claws were retracted and, every few seconds, a tremor ran right through her.  Every line of her body screamed exhaustion, so Lydia swallowed nervously and left her alone, instead turning to Scott.

The alpha was kneeling on the ground, head bowed and hands on his lap.  She couldn’t see his expression, but his muscles were tense and his chest heaved as he stared at the ground.  Lydia licked her lips and hesitantly walked toward him.

She was halfway there when she saw what he was looking at and pulled to a shocked halt.  Shards of metal were scattered across the floor –the chain and handcuffs, she realised, torn to shreds and littering the small space within the mountain ash circles.

“Did I do this?”  Scott rasped, voice hoarse after an entire night of use. 

Lydia jerked her gaze upward, stumbling back a step before realising that his eyes were dark, his claws gone, his shoulders slumped with misery. 

“I think so,” she replied, warily.  “Are you back to normal?”

He nodded, then thought about it and shook his head instead.  “I don’t understand,” Scott said, soundly oddly frightened.  “I haven’t been like this since my second full moon.  What the hell happened?”

Lydia blinked at him, unsure how to answer.

Malia must have been more awake than she seemed, since she had apparently been listening to the exchange and didn’t seem to have the same problem.  “Seriously, Scott?” she drawled from across the room, struggling into a sitting position.  “It’s Stiles.  Stiles happened.”  She rattled her chains, lifting her wrists toward Lydia.  “Can you get me out of these?”

Lydia nodded and quickly dragged two fingers through the mountain ash circles before crossing back to Malia, drawing the keys from her pocket as she went.  Scott followed close behind, although he wobbled a little as he stood and wore an eerily dazed expression. 

“It can’t be about Stiles,” Scott argued, busying himself with Malia’s chain while Lydia fit the key into the handcuffs.  “He’s not my anchor.  I anchor myself, remember?”

The chain dropped to the floor and Malia stood, rubbing the circulation back into her wrists even as she raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Scott.  “You’ve been all over the place since he vanished,” she pointed out, not unkindly.  “Not that I have room to talk, but…if you think it hasn’t affected you, you’re kidding yourself.”

“Think about it this way,” Lydia added, since Scott looked like he was ready to protest.  “You and Stiles have been glued at the hip since you were, what, six?”

“Five,” Scott mumbled, glancing back at the shards with a wince.

“Five, whatever,” Lydia acknowledged dismissively.  “My point is, he’s a huge part of your life.  He’s a huge part of _you_.  Being your own anchor is all well and good, but it’s hard to even think about you without thinking about Stiles.  It makes sense that your control would be rocked with him being gone.”

Scott considered that with a frown.  “A few months ago, the thing with Theo,” he said hesitantly.  “I didn’t lose control then.”

“You also didn’t heal,” Malia pointed out.  “And at least you knew he was safe.  Hell, he was probably in less danger than usual, since you wouldn’t let him help.”

“I guess.”  Scott still sounded unsure, but now he seemed more sad than scared.  Lydia wasn’t sure if she should count that as progress. “I really am sorry about last night.”

Malia pressed her lips together in a wan smile.  “Hey, it’s all good.  Not like I haven’t done worse.”

The words hung uneasily in the air, the implication understood by all.  Scott frowned, opening his mouth to argue, but Malia cut him off by pointedly turning toward Lydia.  “Are you going to try to find him again?”

Lydia decided not to comment on the obvious deflection.  She exhaled through pursed lips, tracking her gaze from Malia to Scott to the shards and back to Malia.  Exhaustion weighed down her bones and neither of them looked any better, but, still. 

“Breakfast first,” she decided.  “Then I’ll try.”

* * *

Allison peeked around the corner, and Derek clenched his right hand into a fist to keep from pulling her back.  He didn’t trust easily and he hated relying on humans even more, but this was never going to work if he didn’t give her some leeway. 

Still, he watched intently as her dark eyes studied the building, only releasing his breath when she drew back behind cover.  “Top floor, second window from the left,” she muttered, shooting Derek a sideways glance even as she unslung her bow.  “You’re right – there’s just the one.”

Derek ground his teeth as he considered their options.  If Allison tried to take out the sniper and failed, the alarm would be raised before they even started their rescue mission.  But if she didn’t, they’d be seen before they made it to the building, since the station was surrounded by broad bitumen driveways and carparks that offered no cover.

Allison must have realised the same thing.  “A distraction is our best bet,” she decided, running her hands absently across the length of her bow.  “Nothing too big – we don’t want to put them on alert.  Just enough to make the sniper look elsewhere for a moment.”

“You have something in mind?”

Allison gave a half-shrug.  “Keep it simple.  Shoot something in the distance to pull his attention that way.  We’ll have to move quickly, though.”   She nocked an arrow, then raised a questioning eyebrow at Derek. 

She wasn’t really asking permission, but Derek still hesitated before nodding his assent.  He glanced over his shoulder to find Jackson and Scott nodding as well, although Scott’s expression still looked haunted.  The younger boy seemed to be struggling against the urge to forcibly drag Allison away from the station.

He didn’t argue, though, and Derek supposed he should be grateful for small mercies.  Half an hour of listening to the two of them bicker was more than enough, particularly when it had become apparent after five minutes that Allison was not going to back down.  Derek wasn’t sure why Scott was suddenly so protective of her, but he _was_ certain that Scott wouldn’t tell him the truth while the others were still within earshot.  Just one more question to add to the list for later.

Right now, though, they had a job to do.  Allison scanned their surroundings with eagle eyes and she must have found a suitable target because she nodded slightly, then readied her feet and half-drew her bow.  Derek shuffled sideways, just enough for him to clearly see the left side of the building, and he quickly zeroed in on the flash of light bouncing off the barrel of a rifle.  “Whenever you’re ready,” he muttered.

He didn’t dare look away from the sniper, but in his peripheral vision he saw Allison rise to her feet and draw back the bowstring in a single, fluid movement.  An arrow flew overhead with a high-pitched whistle, and a moment later something clattered in the far-left distance. 

The muzzle jerked upright, then twisted toward the noise.

Derek moved before he could think better of it.

He slipped out of the alleyway on silent feet and darted across the street, acutely aware of the three teenagers following close behind.  The last rays of the sinking sun warmed his back and, hopefully, blinded any stray eyes to their approach, and he held his breath as he leapt upward, sailing over the chain-link fence with ease.  He turned his momentum into a forward tumble, then came to a stop on his feet with his back pressed against cool brick.

The others joined him a moment later, Jackson having carried Allison over the fence, and then he waited with his heart firmly in his throat for the inevitable shout of alarm and rush of footsteps.

One second.

Two.

Three.

At seven seconds, he carefully released the breath he had been holding and ordered his hands to stop shaking. 

_So far, so good_ , Derek thought, grimly. _But we can’t stay here._

Carefully, he turned sideways and took a step toward the south side of the building.  There were no doors, here, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Doors would be guarded but windows likely weren’t and there were several sash windows embedded in this wall alone.  The nearest one was only a few paces away, and Derek reached out and gave it an experimental tug.

It was locked, and covered up with cardboard for good measure.  Derek hadn’t really expected anything different.

He glanced back to Scott, catching the younger boy’s eye immediately, and raised his eyebrow while he jerked a thumb at the window.

Scott understood the unspoken question immediately.  He leaned into Derek, speaking so softly that the werewolf could only just make out the words.   “Storage room, I think.”

Storage room.  Good enough.

Nodding, Derek waved Scott back a step and turned to face the window head-on.  He placed both hands at the bottom of the window frame and wrenched upward.

The lock broke with a loud _crack_.

Shit.

No time for hesitation – Derek tore out the cardboard and dragged Scott toward him.  “In, now!” he hissed.

Scott’s eyes had widened at the noise but he didn’t hesitate, throwing himself through the window in record time.  Allison went next, then Jackson, and finally Derek leapt through the opening and immediately turned around, closing the window as gently as he could and propping the cardboard back into place.  It wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, but it should at least help mask their path to anyone glancing in from the street.

Then he blew out a shaky breath, and turned back around.

Scott was right – they were in a storage room.  Whatever it had originally held was long gone, and now it was filled with piles of fabric – clothes, Derek realised, and some blankets.

That was good.  No one was likely to be guarding clothing.

Good thing, too, because Jackson was already easing open the door to peer into the hallway.

Derek hurried over to his side.  “Anything?” he breathed. 

Jackson held up two fingers, keeping his gaze fixed on the hallway. 

Briefly, Derek paused to listen, quickly confirming the sound of two steady heartbeats mere yards away.  He strained, trying to hear any further sounds of trouble, but the hallways beyond were silent.

Luck was on their side, it seemed.

“You and me,” Derek ordered in a whisper to Jackson, before pinning Scott and Allison with a glance and continuing in the same breath: “You’re backup.”

Allison looked like she had a few choice words to say about that.  Derek didn’t really care.  “Ready?” he asked, turning back to Jackson.

The boy nodded, then swung the door open and leapt forward in a single movement.  Derek followed, instantly spying the two men loitering at the end of the hallway.  One, a redhead, was lounging with his shoulders against the wall, chewing thoughtfully as he proffered a packet of dried fruit to his companion.  The other, taller and dark-skinned, froze mid-reach when he heard the door, his face immediately whipping toward them and jaw dropping with surprise.

Derek was moving before they could recover.

He barrelled down the hallway at breakneck speed, aiming for the redhead and trusting Jackson to handle the other.  The packet dropped from Red’s hands as he turned, lips peeling back in a snarl and eyes glowing blue.  One clawed hand reached out to swipe at Derek’s abdomen and he leaped sideways, allowing it to pass harmlessly through the air before him.  He slammed into the wall, then pushed off to crash into Red’s shoulder and send both of them tumbling to the floor.

Red hit the ground with a loud thump.  He cursed, writhing violently beneath Derek’s weight, trying to throw the broader man off.  Derek grit his teeth and dug in his knees, and only just ducked out of the way of another clawed swipe, this time at his face.

“Stay down,” Derek growled, catching the man’s wrist and wrestling it to the ground.  “Final warning.”

Red snarled, lips drawing back to reveal razor-sharp fangs, and threw his head forward.

Derek wrenched backward just in time and the jaws snapped shut on air.  One hand was still pinning Red’s arm, so he used his other to grab Red’s shoulder and drag him forward.  Once Red’s head was a foot off the ground, he reversed directions and pushed backward, smashing Red’s skull against the floor.

Red let out a gargled yell.

Derek ignored him and tightened his grip, dragging him forward, then slamming him backward.

Forward, and backward.

The fourth time, Red didn’t make any noise at all.

Derek loosened his grip, breathing heavily as he warily eyed the other man.  His eyes were half-closed and his muscles lax, his head lolling bonelessly against the ground.  But as Derek watched, his chest expanded ever so slightly, then constricted.

_He’s still alive_ , Derek told himself, and tried to pretend he wasn’t shaken.  _Stay focussed._

Muffled grunts reminded him that he wasn’t alone, so he sprung to his feet and spun, just in time to see Scott sink a powerful fist into the other werewolf’s jaw as Jackson pinned him from behind.  It collided with a crack, and then it was over: the dark-skinned man crumpled, head drooping forward and knees sagging, and Jackson stumbled slightly beneath the sudden dead weight. 

“Nice work,” Derek muttered, his voice as tight as the fist around his heart.  “Get them into the storage room, quickly.”

Allison took Derek’s spot at the end of the hall while they dragged the unconscious men out of sight.  Derek picked up Red by himself, steadfastly ignoring the way Jackson’s gaze lingered on the red-stained floor, and carefully set him down beside the other man.  Scott then took his place by the unconscious werewolves, rolling both men onto their sides and tilting their heads before nodding in satisfaction as their breaths came a little easier.  Finally, they all rejoined Allison at the end of the corridor, the storeroom door shut carefully behind them.  

“I’ll take point,” Scott said, quietly.  Derek opened his mouth to protest, but Scott silenced him with a look.  “I know the layout better than any of you.”

Derek frowned.  Scott rarely mentioned it, but Derek knew he had been close with the Sheriff ever since Rafe McCall skipped town years ago and Melissa turned to Stilinski for support.  He probably did know this place like the back of his hand, which made him the obvious choice to take the lead.

That didn’t mean Derek had to like it.

Still, he sent Scott a quick nod.  Maybe it was his imagination, but the boy seemed to stand a little taller as he slipped into the corridor.

Derek fell in behind him, with Allison at his side and Jackson bringing up the rear.  They moved quickly but quietly – twice, he heard footsteps approaching and they scrambled into nearby offices and crouched low, waiting for them to pass.

“Does anyone else think this is too easy?” Jackson muttered, after they emerged, undetected, for the third time.  “Where is everybody?”

Allison shifted, easing a knife in her belt.  Her voice was deliberately light, but she, too, looked worried.  “Maybe they don’t actually live here? Maybe this is just headquarters – the inner circle, or something.”

It was a reasonable suggestion, but it didn’t feel right.  Derek resisted the urge to rub the uneasy prickling sensation from his arms.  “Let’s just keep moving,” he ordered.  The sooner they got this over with, the better.

Scott was already crouched at the end of the corridor, focussing his hearing on the path ahead.  There was a faint line between his eyes, a slight downturn to his lips, and Derek frowned at the sight.

“What’s wrong?” Derek whispered as he joined him, the other two close behind.

Scott hesitated.  “The holding cells are just over there,” he murmured, pointing at a nondescript door several yards away.  “And I can only hear one heartbeat inside.  It’s just…can you smell that?”

Derek tamped down on a swell of hope and sniffed.  There was an acrid scent, immediately recognisable, wafting beneath a nearby door.  “Smells like fertiliser,” he commented, crinkling his nose in distaste.

“That’s what I thought,” Scott agreed.  “But – why? Why here?”

Derek’s frown deepened, but before he could ponder it further someone swore loudly from behind him. 

“Hey!” yelled an unfamiliar voice. 

Derek spun wildly, heart stopping at the sight of two muscular teenagers blocking the far end of the hallway.  Their eyes glowed blue in unison – twins, he realised with a start – and, behind them, a slender dark-haired woman took off in the opposite direction at a dead sprint.

Fuck.

Their luck had finally run out.

“Guys, go!” Derek shouted.  He allowed the shift to overcome his features, instantly narrowing his focus to the twins.  “Grab Stiles and get out.”

He thought he felt Scott hesitate behind him but didn’t have time to dwell on it as the twins raced toward him, unnaturally synchronised. Then they were on him, and it was all he could do to stay alive.  He ducked beneath one hand, jerked out of the way of gnashing teeth, and twisted in mid-air to avoid a foot that would have knocked his legs out from beneath him.  He planted one boot into a ribcage and was rewarded with a pained grunt, but his satisfaction was short-lived as a strong arm wrapped itself around his neck and crushed down on his windpipe.

The pain was unbearable.  Choking, he ignored the black spots clouding his vision and raised his right hand, flailing blindly until his claws sunk into flesh.  Then he ripped his arm downward, feeling strips tear away from the boy’s arm as he went.

The werewolf roared in pain and his crushing grip loosened, ever so slightly.  Derek didn’t waste the advantage: digging his fingers back into the wounds, he yanked the arm as far away from him as possible and slipped out of the werewolf’s hold, then spun with one arm outstretched to slash across the boy’s abdomen. 

The twin cried out in agony.  Doubling over, the fight momentarily forgotten, he clutched desperately at the four deep gashes marring his skin.  Dark red blood seeped through his fingers and soaked his shirt before dripping onto the floor. 

A faint whistling noise was the only warning Derek had to tear his eyes away from the sickening sight.  He spun, only just missing a rake of the other twin’s claws, the ducked to avoid a clenched fist that would have snapped his jaw clean in two.  Then he was stumbling backward as the boy ploughed toward him, all claws and teeth and powerful kicks, his youthful face contorted with rage.  Derek caught a fist, swept out a leg, and then finally found an opening: quick as a flash, he slammed the side of his hand into the front of the boy’s neck with all the force he could muster.  The boy choked, eye bulging, and one hand drifted to his neck as he sank to his knees. 

He wouldn’t be down for long.

Not willing to waste any more time, Derek turned and ran, only slowing when he reached the door Scott had pointed out earlier.  It was standing open, and a quick glance inside confirmed his suspicions: the room was empty, and at the far end a barred cell door was lying mangled on the ground.  

_They got him. And, hopefully, they’re already gone._

Derek didn’t linger. Heavy footsteps were rapidly approaching from his right, so he turned left and sprinted as fast as the short hallway would allow, then curbed hard to the left once more.

One more corridor, and he’d be free.  There was a large room at the end of this hallway, and from there only one door stood between him and the outside.  He could almost taste the evening air, and he lowered his head and barrelled onward, reaching out with one hand to slam open the second-to-last door.                      

Then he skidded to an abrupt halt, gut twisting in horror.

The door was the first thing he noticed.  Buried in the opposite wall, it stood open to reveal an open carpark and starry sky, and half-a-dozen werewolves and something that looked like a wendigo slumped unmoving on the ground before it.  Even in the near-darkness, Derek could see a multitude of claw marks littering their skin, and every now and then moonlight glinted off the well-polished silver of Allison’s knives, buried to the hilt in bloodied limbs.  As he watched, one of the creatures started to stand, and then cried out in pain as an arrow flew through the open door to pierce his thigh.

_She made it out.  That’s something._

He couldn’t bring himself to feel relieved, though.  He couldn’t feel anything, beneath the crushing weight of failure. 

For in the centre of the room lay Jackson, motionless on the ground.  One side of his face was red and already starting to swell, and his eyes were wide and fearful as they darted around the room.  If it weren’t for that, though, Derek would have thought him unconscious: he wasn’t so much as twitching a finger.

Beside him, a familiar dark-haired teenager was similarly limp.  Stiles.  Unlike Jackson, he looked mostly unhurt, but his eyes were half-lidded and gazing mindlessly into nothing while his limbs sprawled awkwardly on the tiled floor.  It must have been uncomfortable as hell, but the boy made no effort to move.

Scott was kneeling beside them both.  He at least seemed capable of movement, but blood was trickling from a multitude of cuts and his hands were raised the universal gesture of surrender.  A moment later, he crumpled forward, his whole body slackening like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“What the -” A low hiss interrupted Derek’s question.  His dread intensifying, he raised his head to the ceiling and stared at the green, reptilian creature hanging from the plaster, long tail swishing carelessly against the nearby wall.  “Kanima?”

The creature hissed in reply, and a bead of saliva dripped from its mouth.  It landed squarely on Derek’s forehead and he grimaced in disgust, dragging a hand across the sticky substance before wiping it clean on his shirt.  “Ah, shit.”

When the weakness came, it hit him like a truck.  One minute he was standing, and then he was falling: sideways, at first, his right shoulder slamming painfully into the wall before he slid bonelessly to the ground.

A pair of boots stepped into his line of sight and Derek hid his grimace, not wanting to give more than he had to.  The newcomer knelt, and Derek swallowed a groan at the familiar narrow face.

“Hello, nephew,” Peter grinned.


	19. Nightmares, But I Haven't Slept In Ages

Derek flinched as he watched Scott slam into the concrete floor, first with his shoulder and then with his head.  The teenager’s eyes bulged in pain but he bit down on his tongue, stifling a cry in favour of glaring at the werewolf who had tossed him so roughly into the cell.  

It was a futile gesture: the wolf had lost interest in Scott as soon as the boy had left his arms.  He was already facing the other way, sliding the rifle off his back and into his hands as he sauntered out of the cell.

“You okay?” Derek whispered, catching Scott’s eye.

The smaller boy grimaced, but then nodded. Or, he attempted to nod, anyway -  the movement was barely perceptible, his neck muscles still paralysed by the kanima.

The fear was evident in Scott’s eyes despite his best efforts, so Derek did his best to muster a reassuring smile before turning back to Jackson.  The blonde had been tossed into the cell before either of them and had ended up somewhere on Derek’s left.  It took a few seconds and more effort than he could have imagined, but eventually Derek managed to turn toward him, only for his gut to clench in horror at the sight.

Jackson had been beaten half to death.  He was still unconscious, his mouth half-open and drool pooling on the concrete beneath his slack lips.  The right side of his face was already purple and so swollen that it hid one of his eyes, and beneath his rucked-up shirt Derek could see a myriad of bruises criss-crossing his ribs.  His right arm was splayed across the ground before him, his wrist jutting away from his elbow at an unnatural angle. 

Inhaling sharply, Derek pushed down on his churning stomach and tried to focus on logistics.  The wrist.  That would have to be his first priority, when he could move again.  If it set the way it was, he would have to rebreak it, and Jackson would probably be awake by then.  Probably.

_God, let him wake up before then._

“I never wanted this, you know,” Peter lamented in a silken voice. 

Derek narrowed his crimson eyes as he snapped his attention to the cell door.  Peter lounged casually in the doorway of their cell, hands in his pockets and seemingly unconcerned about his own safety.  And why should he be?  Even if Derek could move, he would stand no chance against the two burly werewolves flanking Peter like bodyguards, rifles aimed squarely at Scott and Derek’s chests.

Peter sighed mournfully and shook his head.  “I gave you plenty of opportunities to join me.  Too many, really.  But you threw them back in my face and so, here we are.”

“Oh, stow it, Peter,” Derek groaned, putting everything he had into a heated glare.  “You might have convinced these people that you’re some sort of saviour, but I know you.  I know better than to _ever_ ally with you - you’ll screw them over the minute you get the chance.”

 “Oh, I beg to differ.”  Peter’s blue eyes slid to Derek’s right, a playful smile on his lips.  Already knowing what he would find, Derek followed his line of sight with a sinking heart and allowed his gaze to settle on the teenager in the next cell.  Unlike the rest of them, Stiles hadn’t been thrown carelessly into his cell.  Instead, he had been propped up against the far wall with his legs outstretched before him.  His eyes were open and at first glance he might have been merely resting – except that he stared into nothing, face completely expressionless, and never moved a muscle.

The stillness made Derek’s skin crawl. In the short time he’d known Stiles, he’d never known the boy to be still - he twitched, he fiddled, he talked incessantly, and every now and then Derek had wondered if he even had an off button, but, now…nothing.  Not a peep even when a lean woman had thrown him over her shoulder to carry him back to his cell.

Slowly, Derek twisted his neck to stare at Peter.  “What are you talking about?” he asked, careful to keep the growing trepidation clear of his voice.

Peter’s lip curled in a smirk.  “You picked the wrong side, nephew,” he sing-songed.  “We’re getting out of here first thing tomorrow, and your stray here is going to help us do it.”

Icy fear began to wrap itself around Derek’s heart.  “How, exactly?  He’s a kid, Peter.”

“Derek, don’t play dumb,” Peter said with a sigh, sending Derek’s fear shooting up ten-fold.  “I know he’s a spark.  You know I know.”

Derek ground his teeth.  It had been a long shot, but he had hoped…still.  No point crying over spilled milk.  “Fine,” he growled instead, “but so what?” If he could have, Derek would have flung a hand toward Stiles – as it was, he settled for jerking his eyes in the teenager’s direction.  “He doesn’t exactly look capable of helping anybody right now.  How is he going to bust you out of here if he’s not responding?”

For the first time, Peter actually looked annoyed.  “It _is_ inconvenient,” he muttered, pressing his lips together in irritation.  “If I’d known…but no matter.  There are ways to trigger the spark with or without his consciousness to guide it.”

“What are you –?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Peter cut him off, straightening to a standing position and taking a step back from the cell.  “The convoy will be ready by morning.  I’d ask you to come with us, but you’ve made your position horribly clear.  Family or not, I’m not inclined to free you only to have you stab me in the back.”  He paused, blue eyes taking a moment to examine Derek, and in that instant he actually looked sad.  “Stay safe, Derek.  I truly hope you survive.”

“Survive what?”

Derek’s question was left unanswered.  Peter turned away, sliding the cell door shut with a resounding clang before walking out of the room, his bodyguards close behind.  A woman stepped forward out of the shadows – Derek would have started, if he could move, he hadn’t even seen her there – and clicked the cell lock firmly into place.  Then she kneeled as though fiddling with something on the floor.  From this angle, Derek couldn’t see what she was doing, but when she stood there was a tell-tale black dust coating her fingers.  Then she hurried out of the room, not sparing them so much as a glance.

“Derek?” Scott murmured from a few feet away.  “What are we going to do?”

Derek pressed his lips together. His gaze took in the blood seeping from Scott’s slowly-healing wounds, the deepening bruises on Jackson’s cheek, the blank expression on Stiles’ face.  He would have shrugged, but his shoulders didn’t respond to the command.  “I have no idea.”

* * *

_Well, I think you look beautiful._

_You came back._

_Lydia, you have been right every time something like this has happened, alright? So…don’t go doubting yourself now._

She pushed, and the wall frayed and buckled.   It was easier, now, than it had been the first time.  Easier to find the echo of Stiles’ presence, to follow it like a lifeline, to hurtle through a void of black nothingness that would have frozen her in terror if she didn’t know what was waiting at the end of it.  Time stood still and time stretched on forever, and she flew in every direction and none, and -

And then she was there.

“Lydia, are you…?”

Malia’s question was faint in the beginning and inaudible at the end, her words swallowed by the immeasurable chasm that separated Lydia from her friends.  Lydia murmured a reassurance but she doubted the werecoyote would hear it - Malia was back at the lake house, after all, and Lydia was in the Sheriff’s station.

Or, a version of the Sheriff’s station.  Lydia had never visited the holding cells and had only glimpsed them once, when Stiles had yanked open the door while looking for his dad with all the impertinent assurance of a boy who knew he had the deputies in the palm of his hand.  Even so, she was certain that the station had never looked this derelict, this bedraggled, this…empty.   The room had been stripped almost entirely of furniture and there were no guards on duty, even though the cells themselves were full.

There were bars in front of her face, and she cocked her head when she realised she was standing in the cell nearest the entrance.  Then she glanced down and nearly jumped out of her skin, because, there, so close and so real she could almost reach out and touch him, was -

“Stiles,” she whispered.  A whisper was all she could muster through the sudden tightness of her throat.  Greedily, she drank in the sight of him even as she flinched at the hollow of his cheeks, the way his skin clung unhealthily tight to his cheekbones, and the array of bruises scattered across his skin.  Worst of all was the way that he stared into nothingness, his face entirely lax despite his open eyes, his body propped up against the cell wall but listing to one side like a doll.  “What happened to you?”

“Oh, that’s better,” a familiar voice sighed from behind, making Lydia jolt in surprise.  She spun, eyes widening at the sight of Derek, Jackson and Scott all clustered together in the neighbouring cell.  It was Scott who had spoken, and his expression was strangely relieved as he pressed his hands to the floor and shifted into a sitting position.  “I’ve got my arms back, now,” he continued.  “Need a hand?”

“No, it’s alright.  I’m nearly done,” Derek replied.  He was shirtless, sitting on the floor next to Jackson and frowning in concentration as he wound rough-hewn strips of fabric around the blonde’s arm.  Lydia spied a short span of metal poking out from the bandage – a splint, she reasoned, that he must have fashioned from the bench seat that had once lined the cell. 

She winced in sympathy, then winced again when she caught a glimpse of Jackson’s mangled face.  Lines of pain creased his forehead despite the swelling, and as she watched he muttered something indecipherable under his breath and briefly opened his one good eye to glare at Derek.

He made no other complaints, though, which made Lydia’ worry spike further.  Jackson had never been a good patient – if he was passively allowing Derek to treat him, something truly horrible must have happened.

She moistened her mouth and tried to inject as much strength into her voice as she could manage. “Guys?  Can you hear me?”

There was no response from any of the werewolves – not even a twitch. 

It wasn’t unexpected, and she swallowed a disappointed sigh.  Scott hadn’t heard her last time she was here, either, and she was starting to suspect there was only one person who could.

Turning back to Stiles, she put her hands on her hips and tilted her head, considering.  Last time, he’d seemed to sense her, somehow.  He’d turned toward her, tried to reach out to her – although, even then, his searching eyes had slid right past her face without seeing her, and he hadn’t answered a single one of her questions. 

_It’ll be different this time_ , she told herself firmly.  _I’ll figure out a way to make him hear me._

_Just need to figure out how to wake him up first._

“Stiles,” she murmured once more, stepping closer to the teenager and crouching before him.  “It’s me.  Lydia.” 

There was no response.  Just that same blank stare.

Carefully, Lydia reached out with one arm, trembling sightly as she pressed her palm to his cheek.  Or, tried to – her hand slid right past it, ghosting off a smooth, unyielding force that seemed to coat his skin.  Biting her lip, she pulled her hand back and tried again, more slowly this time.  The best she could do was hover her hand above him, close enough that the warmth of his skin tickled her palm.

_Magnets_ , she realised suddenly.  That’s what it felt like – holding a magnet in each hand and trying to push them together, only for the electromagnetic force to push them apart at the last second.  Her hand was a north pole, and Stiles another.

“We’re going to get you home, okay?” Lydia said softly.  She kept her hand where it was.  Maybe she couldn’t touch Stiles, but she could almost feel him, and that was more than she’d had in weeks.  “But I need your help, so you’re going to have to wake up.”

She watched intently, her eyes stinging as she fought back the urge to blink, not wanting to risk missing even the smallest sign of life.

But a second became ten became twenty, and misery pulled her heart all the way to her boots.

There were tears springing her eyes, and Lydia wiped them away impatiently, fighting back the urge to sob.  “Do you always have to make things so difficult?” she muttered, more to herself than to Stiles.

She let her hand drop with a sigh.  Shifting position, she crossed over to Stiles’ side and dropped to the ground, mimicking his posture with her legs stretched out before her and her back pressed against the bars – or, rather, pressed against the strange force that seemed to surround every object in this place.  “If you don’t wake up soon, I’m going to start talking your ear off,” she said warningly, watching Stiles closely from the corner of her eye.  “I’ll tell you all about the dresses I’ve been looking at for prom.  Last warning, Stilinski.”

Predictably, there was no response.  Leaning back against the bars, Lydia rolled her head toward him and squinted, confused, at a column of strange marks on the back of his neck.  

_Claw marks,_ she realised with a sudden rage.  Heat flooded her cheeks and her hands clenched into fists even as she whipped around to glare daggers at the three werewolves in the neighbouring cell. “Who the _hell_ did this?” she thundered.

There was no answer, of course.  Gritting her teeth, Lydia turned back to the marks, one hand drifting unthinkingly toward the wounds.  They weren’t fresh, but they weren’t healed either, and she hissed in sympathy as her index finger brushed lightly against his skin, and –

Lydia’s jaw dropped as her surroundings suddenly blinked out of existence.  Gone were the holding cells – instead, she was sitting against a tree, hands pressed into leaf-litter that was illuminated by the light of the full moon.  _The Preserve_ , she thought wildly, before scrambling to her feet.  _What the hell?_

“Come on,” Stiles suddenly spoke, his enthusiastic voice breaking the silence from somewhere to her right.  She whipped her head toward the sound and stumbled forward, gaping as he came into view.  He was younger – his hair buzzed short, his shoulders a little narrower – and there was a flashlight clutched in his hand. “This way,” he called, and then he slipped and slid his way up a small slope.

Scott appeared from the shadows, hair flopping over his face and an inhaler clasped in one hand. “I should have stayed home,” he muttered, before trudging after Stiles with significantly less excitement.  “I could be in bed right now.  Not out here looking for –”

Light suddenly flooded the clearing, making Scott freeze and Lydia shield her eyes.  She stepped sideways into the darkness, doing her best to appear invisible, although she didn’t really think it would make any difference.  She was starting to realise what was going on.

“Scott!” Sheriff Stilinski barked, stepping in front of his men to shield the boy from any anxious trigger-fingers.  “What the hell are you doing out here?”

Scott bit his lip, eyes watering as he struggled not to glance in Stiles’ direction.  “Um. Out for a walk?  It’s a…nice night…”

The Sheriff raised an unimpressed eyebrow, then swept his light over the surrounding trees.  “Stiles!” he yelled.  “You’ve got five seconds to get your butt out here, unless you want to be grounded for the entire month.  Five, four…”

Lydia bit back a fond smile, turning away from the pair to follow Stiles’ path.  It didn’t take her long to find him – the boy was crouched behind a thick tree trunk on the other side of the small hill, face scrunched in trepidation.  His cheeks were pale in the moonlight, but a few spots of colour started to return when the Sheriff finished his countdown and Scott hurried to assure him that he was here by himself, no, really, Stiles had nothing to do with it this time…

“Stiles?” she tried, just to check.  He didn’t respond, but she wasn’t sure he would have heard her even if he could.  The teenager – and, god, he looked so _young_ – was completely absorbed in watching his dad drag Scott back to the vehicles, only releasing a pent-up breath when the light finally faded into the trees.

“He’s going to kill me,” Stiles declared quietly, pushing away from the tree to stumble back the direction he had come.  “And if Dad doesn’t, Scott will.  Face it, Stilinski – you’re screwed.”

Lydia chuckled as she followed.  He made a decent pace, weirdly comfortable trudging through the undergrowth in the middle of the night, but for once she had no trouble keeping up.  It didn’t seem to matter whether she could see the ground or not – somehow, her feet always found purchase and her balance never wavered.

It was only a few minutes later that a crashing sound made them both freeze.  The sound of rustles and hoofbeats followed, and the next thing she knew Lydia was crouching on the ground, knees tucked to her chest and arms wrapped around her head as an entire herd of deer galloped past her.  One of them brushed her arm, its hair rough against her skin, and she yelped as she jerked away – and then they were gone.  Hoofbeats faded into the distance, and Lydia cautiously raised her head, watching the last deer disappear between the tree trunks before turning back to Stiles.

The boy was back on his feet, shaking slightly as he fumbled for his flashlight.  He clicked the button and the light bounced off rough tree bark, a few sparse bushes, and a pair of glowing, crimson eyes.

“No,” Stiles whispered, hoarsely.  He dropped the flashlight and stumbled backward, one hand drifting upward to clutch at hair that wasn’t there.   “No, this isn’t right.”  Shaking his head, he completely ignored the creature slinking toward him and instead darted his gaze wildly about the clearing.  His eyes landed on Lydia and he started, lips parting in astonishment.

Lydia’s heart stopped. _He can see me._ She opened her mouth, his name ready on her lips, and then –

They were in a basement.  Lydia’s head spun at the sudden change of scenery and she clutched a nearby pipe to steady herself.  The basement’s grey lighting and dilapidated furniture was horribly familiar, and her legs trembled as anxiety swept through her like a flood.

Eichen House.  Would she ever be free of this place?

“Can you do me a favour?” 

Stiles’ voice drew her attention to a faded couch, positioned in the centre of the room and surrounded by a messy pile of old medical files.  He was sitting next to Malia, his fingers twisting together anxiously while the werecoyote watched him in concern.  They were both wearing grey tee-shirts and baggy elastic-banded pants.  “Could you just check the lines on my back? Tell me if they’re fading?” he asked.

He twisted in his seat and Malia lifted his shirt, one finger tracing gently over his right shoulder.  “Yeah, they’re almost gone.”

Stiles swallowed, nervously.

“I’m guessing that’s bad,” Malia added, frowning at sudden stiffness of his shoulders. 

Stiles nodded, then jumped and made a quiet noise of discomfort.

Malia grimaced, letting go of his shirt to tug her own sleeves over her hands.  “I’m sorry.  I told you, I’m always cold.”

Stiles’ terror seemed to fade as he pulled his shirt the rest of the way down and turned back around, a warm smile instead creeping across his face.  “It’s okay.  Here.”  His dark eyes were serious and focussed as he picked up her hands, holding them between both of his as he rubbed his thumbs soothingly across her fingers.  After a moment, though, he halted and stared at the werewolf in surprise.  “Wow, you really are,” he said, and he sounded so startled that Malia actually laughed.

Lydia’s horrified moan was almost loud enough to drown them out.  “Oh, god, get me out of here.”  Her voice was choked, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.  “Stiles, if you can hear me, I’m pretty sure we’re both trapped inside your head right now.  Could you pick a different memory? Literally any other memory.”

The room remained unfortunately solid.  But something strange happened: Stiles jumped and tore his gaze away from Malia to stare at a spot several feet to Lydia’s left.  “Did you hear that?” he asked, suspiciously.

Malia shook her head. “Stiles, there’s nothing there.”

Frowning, Stiles released her hands and stood, staring intently.  Lydia’s legs finally unfroze and she darted forward, pushing herself into his line of sight, but his eyes slid right past her. 

“I thought I heard –”

His sentence was cut off by a heavy footstep from behind.  Terror flitted across Stiles’ face as he spun, and fear stole Lydia’s breath when she saw what it was.

It was humanoid, but dirty bandages covered its eyes and sharp metal teeth lined its gaping maw.  It lumbered out of the shadows toward Malia, who glanced over her shoulder in confusion before turning back to Stiles.  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Stiles swallowed and shook his head, for once lost for words.

“Here’s another riddle for you, Stiles,” the nogitsune drawled.  It reached out with one bandaged hand to drape filthy fingers over Malia’s neck, and still she didn’t seem to notice.  “What do you call a girl without a head?”

“No!” Lydia shouted, lunging forward just as Stiles gripped his head with both hands.  He fell to his knees, eyes scrunched tightly shut.

“No, this isn’t right, this isn’t _right!_ ” he shouted, desperately.  “Get out of my head!”

The nogitsune let out a guttural laugh.  “Who says this is in your head?” it asked, and then it gripped Malia’s jaw and _twisted_ and –

They were on a rooftop.  A woman stood on the air conditioning unit, seemingly uncaring of the sheer drop mere feet away, muttering under her breath as she paced back and forth.  She looked agitated – scared, almost – and every now and then she darted a furtive glance at a little boy standing directly in front of Lydia.

Lydia blinked at them, then turned to peer into the surrounding shadows.  “Stiles?” she called, uncertainly.  Where had he gone?

Or…wait.

Reluctantly, she pulled her gaze back to the little boy, forcing herself to pay attention to the details.  To his pale skin, his large, brown eyes, the way his fingers twisted together restlessly even as he clasped his hands together before him.

“Oh, no,” Lydia breathed.

The little boy shifted back and forth, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally asking, “Mum, what are you doing?”

The woman jerked to a halt, tension evident in every line of her body.  She glanced at the boy from the corner of her eye, then shook her head and resumed her pacing.  Two steps, turn, then walk again.  Two steps, turn, then walk.

The boy took a hesitant step forward. “Mum?”

“Stop!” the woman screeched.  She whirled abruptly, defensively raising one shaking arm.  “ _Stop_ _staring at me_! Don’t come any closer!”

The boy – Stiles, Lydia corrected herself, reluctantly – froze in place.  His eyes rounded with terror, and he raised his palms in a gesture of surrender.  “Please come down,” he begged, quietly.

The woman’s chest heaved.  Shaking her head, she took a half-step back and Lydia gasped in horror.  The woman’s heel was now hanging over the edge of the building - one wrong movement, and she would be gone.

Stiles must have noticed the same thing.  His breaths came in sharp little bursts, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.  Carefully, he took a few steps backward, never taking his eyes off his mother as though terrified she would disappear if he so much as glanced away.  “Okay, okay, I’m moving back, see?  I can move all the way back to the door, if you like.  Just, please come down from there.  _Please._ ”  His voice cracked on the last word, a sob breaking it in two.

His mother didn’t seem to notice.  She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to the sheer drop below, and for a moment her fear seemed to vanish, replaced by consideration.  Contemplation.

“No!” Lydia was surprised to find that it was she who had spoken, but she couldn’t help it.  She couldn’t just sit back and watch this happen – whatever _this_ was.  It wasn’t a memory, she knew that much.  Striding forward, Lydia ignored the woman and instead planted herself in front of Stiles, who had finally torn his eyes away from his mother to squint at her in surprise.

Good.  At least he was looking at her.

“Stiles, listen to me,” Lydia ordered.  “This isn’t real.”

Stiles frowned, then gave himself a quick shake and turned back to his mother.  “Mum, please –”

“ _Listen to me_ ,” Lydia interrupted.  She took a step closer and considered reaching out to place her hands on his shoulders before thinking better of it.  Would she even be able to touch him, here?  “This isn’t real,” she repeated instead.  “You’re seventeen and we’re both trapped inside your head, reliving some twisted nightmare version of your memories.  Okay?  You need to wake up.”

For a moment, the little boy looked startled.  Then he squeezed his eyes shut, muttered something indecipherable under his breath, and pushed past her to approach his mother once more.  “Mum, you’re sick, remember?”

The woman hadn’t moved during their exchange, but now she gasped, her entire body trembling with fear. “I told you to stay back!” she cried.  Terrified, she began to scream, flailing an arm at them as though trying to keep them away.  And then she swayed, desperately shifting her weight as she lost her balance, but her heel was hanging over air and as Lydia watched her shoe slipped off the ledge and she started tumbling backward and –

They were in a carpark.  A familiar carpark, and Lydia stiffened in horror as her gaze locked onto the scene before her.  Stiles was thankfully a teenager once more, but now he was standing in front of Allison and another version of herself which would have been enough to make Lydia’s head spin if she weren’t too busy fighting back waves of nausea.

Because she knew this memory.  Knew it all too well, and she reluctantly dragged her gaze away from her twin to instead study the picture of Scott, standing amidst a puddle of gasoline, features twisted in misery, lit flare held aloft in one hand.

“There’s no hope,” Scott said brokenly, and that’s when Lydia found herself moving.  She pushed forward desperately until she was once again in front of Stiles, and this time she reached out and gripped his shoulders tightly, distantly grateful that she could feel his warm flesh beneath her palms.

“No, we’re not doing this,” she shouted angrily, glaring daggers at Stiles until he stopped trying to peer past her and met her gaze instead.  “This. Is. Not. Real. Wake up!” 

He frowned and said something she wouldn’t dare repeat, and tried to push her aside.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia forced herself to stop thinking about the hundred ways she was going to skin him alive if they ever got out of this and decided to try a different tack instead.

“Remember the white room?” she prompted him.  She spoke quickly, hoping to get through to him before the memory changed once more.  “White floor, white columns, white walls, remember?  Stretches on forever.  I’ve met you there before.”

Stiles didn’t reply, but now he was looking at her, his brow furrowing further by the second.

“The white room, okay?  Just try to remember it.  Try to focus on the details.  You can do it, Stiles.”

He blinked, and for a moment his gaze sharpened and he looked at her, _really_ looked, and then –

They were in a room.

A white room, with a white floor and white walls and white columns and probably a white ceiling if Lydia ever dared to push past her fear of what she would find if she looked up.

A white room, and it was completely empty, except for them.

Stiles was still looking right at her, and Lydia licked her dry lips and hoped she wasn’t imagining the recognition in his eyes.  “Stiles?” she whispered for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Lydia?” he croaked.

A hysterical giggle escaped her lips, and Lydia raced forward, throwing her arms around him before she even realised what she was doing.  He was wonderfully real, solid and warm beneath against her chest, so she tightened her fingers in his shirt and buried her face in his neck and didn’t bother to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

Strong arms wound their way around her back and a warm hand patted her shoulder uncertainly.  “Lydia?” Stiles repeated, sounding baffled.  “What’s going on?  Where are we?”

Lydia scrubbed her eyes roughly with the back of her hand and took one last moment to squeeze him tightly before letting go.  “We’re in your head,” she answered.  His face instantly tightened in alarm, so she gave him a lopsided smile. “Don’t worry, you’re okay. Okay-ish.  You just need to wake up.”

Stiles squinted in confusion, then shook his head distractedly.  Leaning forward, his brow creased as he studied her intently with dark eyes.  “You’re my Lydia, right?” he asked, then powered on before Lydia could figure out how she was supposed to respond to _that_.  “God, I’ve missed you.  This place is completely insane – you know I ended up in an alternate reality? Crazy, right?  Although, maybe not that crazy compared to some of the stuff we’ve been through – I mean, fairies were pretty out there.  Speaking of which, is everyone okay?  Wait a minute, how are you here?”

Lydia’s smile broadened as the words flowed on, and when he finally stopped talking long enough for her to reply she let out a small laugh and ticked the answers off her fingers.  “We figured out the alternate reality thing.  Everyone’s fine, just worried about you.  And I don’t really understand how I’m here myself, except it’s got something to do with anchors,” she finished, vaguely.

Something indecipherable crossed Stiles’ face.  She could almost see the gears whirring in his head…but then a thought struck and he brightened, straightening excitedly. “Does this mean you figured it out?  You know how to get me home?”

Oh.  Shaking her head was the hardest thing Lydia ever had to do.  “I’m…no.  Well, sort of.  But, Stiles, you did this. You brought yourself to this dimension.”

Stiles’ face fell.  “Yeah, I figured.”  His mouth twisted in annoyance, and he scuffed at the ground with the toe of one shoe.  “But I have no idea how.  I don’t know if I can do it again.”

“Well, I can’t help you with specifics, but Peter has an idea.  He thinks the trickiest part will actually be identifying our reality when you try to come home.  There’s an infinite number of alternate realities, after all, and you don’t want to end up in the wrong one.”

Stiles paled. 

“So, you’ll need to focus on something from home.  Or someone.  A person or a memory that will be strong enough to guide you home.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully.  “Like the ice bath.”

She was blushing, Lydia realised, and she ducked her head in the hopes of hiding the redness of her cheeks.  The ice bath was barely a year ago, but so much had happened since then.  Aiden.  The nogistune.  Malia.

Things had changed, was the point.  She said as much, and Stiles nodded a little too quickly, and Lydia quickly bolstered the walls around her heart and grabbed his hand.

“You need to wake up,” she said, quietly.  “Derek, Scott and Jackson look like they could use your help, and you can’t stay here forever.  But I don’t know if I’ll still be here when you do, so I’m going to say goodbye now.  Be careful, okay?  We all miss you.”

Stiles squeezed her hand, long and hard.  For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but then something shuttered behind his eyes and he reluctantly released his grip.  “I miss you too,” he said, instead.  “All of you.  Try to come back soon?”

“Always.”

She kept her eyes on him, not wanting to miss a second of him even as the walls began to glow.  Pure white expanded, drowning out the details of the room, blurring the edges of Stiles’ face, dissolving the floor beneath her feet.

And then something tugged at her navel, lifting her weightlessly into the air and dragging her backwards and, just like that, the room was gone.


	20. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I suck. I am so sorry about the massive delay with this chapter. RL got overwhelming and chapter 22 was kicking my butt (you'll see why when we get to it), and I wanted to have a rough draft of it finished before posting this one because the next couple of chapters run together. But I really didn't mean to take this long, so apologies again.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this far. Hope you enjoy the chapter! xx

Allison had been running for what seemed like days.

Her calves burned. Her breaths came in quick, shallow bursts, and the sides of her feet rubbed uncomfortably against the insides of what were once well-fitted shoes.

And, still, the heavy thud of footsteps dogged her path.

She had picked up quite a tail when she first escaped the station.  Two werewolves, who crumpled against a wave of carefully-aimed arrows.  A fox-like creature, who only fell back when Allison slashed wildly across its chest, leaving a wound that leaked orange blood.  And a woman who would have been pretty if her face hadn’t split in two to reveal several rows of sharp teeth and an impossibly long tongue.  She had been harder to evade, and it wasn’t until she had one hand wrapped around Allison’s throat that Allison finally gained an advantage.  Gripping a short knife in her sweaty palm, she not to think about what she was doing and thrust upward, sinking the blade into the woman’s left eye.

The woman dropped her pretty quickly after that.  Allison darted away into the darkness and didn’t look back.

But this creature.  This thing, whatever it was, had been impossible to lose.  It wasn’t fast and it didn’t seem smart but it was relentless, catching up to her no matter how fast she ran or how well she hid.  Twice, it had nearly cornered her until she lashed out with fists and boots, making a gap just small enough to slip past and run away.

She had caught it off-guard both times.  She didn’t think it would happen again.  

At first, she had angled toward the school, but then she glimpsed half-a-dozen silhouettes running the same way and her heart sank.   Peter wouldn’t attack the camp – or, she didn’t _think_ he would – which meant they were likely trying to capture her.  No doubt, they would position themselves near every entrance, supernatural senses peeled and waiting, ready to pounce as soon as she showed her face.

She hadn’t dared approach the school after that.  Instead, she spent the night wandering aimlessly around the town, eyes and ears straining through the darkness, desperately trying lose the thing hunting her.

Now, though, she sighed with relief as the first rays of sunlight bounced off the dull bitumen streets and warmed her cheeks.  The camp would be stirring soon, so she banked right at the next corner to start heading home.  Peter’s people wouldn’t be likely to try anything if there were witnesses.  _I hope_ , _anyway._

It wasn’t really a choice, anyway.  Exhaustion dulled her senses and reduced her steady stride to an uneven hobble – she couldn’t keep going like this forever.  In the last half hour alone, the heavy footsteps had drawn noticeably closer. 

Overhead, a drone buzzed lazily along the street, its camera twisting this way and that.  The dark lens landed on her and it hovered steady for a moment, watching, before continuing on.  Allison narrowed her eyes at it – the drones had always made her uncomfortable, unobtrusive though they were – and pursed her lips in annoyance when she saw it come to a stop two blocks away.  Directly over the elementary school.

Then realisation struck home, and a wave of hope momentarily drowned out her fatigue.  The drone had stopped, which meant there were probably people outdoors, which meant –

“Allison!” 

The cry came from her left and Allison lurched sideways, crossbow rising automatically.  The weapon shook, fatigue betraying her aim, and she bit her cheeks in fear.

“Woah, calm down! It’s just me.”

Relief pushed all the air out of her lungs.  “Isaac,” Allison breathed, lowering the bow in an instant.  Her cheeks coloured pink in embarrassment, but she was too tired to care.  “What are you doing here?”

He stepped further into the sunlight, a head taller than her and paler than she’d ever seen him.  His expression was a mixture of confusion and hurt, and his eyes were strangely red-rimmed.   “Looking for you,” he replied, hoarsely.  “You just took off.  You’ve been gone all night.  I thought you were…”

The words hung awkwardly between them.  Allison was still trying to figure out how to respond when a soft _thump_ interrupted her thoughts.  Somehow, she’d forgotten about her stalker. 

“Come on,” Allison urged, grabbing Isaac by the wrist.  She took off at a jog, drawing on every last drop of energy, and the curly-haired teen thankfully fell into step without question.  His shoulders were stiff with unanswered questions, though, and every few seconds he turned to glance behind them.

She half-expected that they wouldn’t make it.  Maybe the creature would put on a burst of speed at the last minute, easily catching up to their slow jog.  Or maybe Peter’s people would snatch them off the street and drag them kicking and screaming back to the station.  But, for once, luck was on their side, and they tumbled through the school gates without issue.  The heavy footsteps faltered to a pregnant silence as the creature considered its next move.  Allison held her breath and listened intently, then then sagged in relief as the thud-thud picked up again, this time growing more distant with each passing moment.   

“Oh, thank god,” she muttered fervently, rocking forward to brace her hands on her knees.  “I’m never doing that again.”

“You think?” Isaac, annoyingly enough, didn’t sound remotely out of breath.  “We got your note, by the way.  _Gone with Jackson to help Derek._   Super-informative, and not at all something that I’d like to have been told in person.”  Allison twisted to glare at him, only for her anger to instantly vanish at the sight of his pinched face and shaking hands.  “What the hell happened, Allison?  Where’s Jackson?”

Sighing, Allison dragged herself back to a standing position.  “Not here,” she warned rather than answering, casting a wary glance at the nearby street.  “Is Boyd around?”

Isaac led the way, matching his pace to Allison’s weary hobble.  If he happened to walk a little closer than necessary, well, Allison couldn’t blame him.  “We’re holed up in the old music building, since Jackson’s house isn’t exactly liveable anymore. Although, honestly, I would have stayed here regardless,” he added with a tight-lipped frown.  “Everyone’s on edge because of the fire.  Satomi needs all the level heads she can get.”

Allison glanced at him in surprise.  “Is she expecting trouble?”  It was almost unthinkable, but then again, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to redefine the word.

“I wouldn’t say she’s expecting it so much as being cautious.  She’s as worried as everyone else, though you’d never tell by looking at her.  But – and don’t tell anyone, because I’m not supposed to know – but it sounds like negotiations are finally getting there.  A few more weeks, and maybe –”

“Don’t.”  Allison’s voice was harsh, and she suddenly found herself blinking back tears.  “Just…don’t get my hopes up.  Please.”

For a moment, Isaac merely looked at her, blue eyes unreadable.  Then he turned away and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

The music building was a tiny one-room construct at the back of the campus.  Isaac knocked twice before opening the door to reveal a round, oddly-quiet, carpeted room.  Lydia stood near the far wall, blinking blearily at the empty space to her right, while Boyd lounged lazily on the floor.  When he saw them, he sprung to his feet with a broad grin. “Allison!” he cried, pulling her into a crushing hug.  “Thank god you’re okay.”

Allison let out a squeak at the pressure and patted his arms gently.  Eventually, he got the hint and let her go.  “Are you guys alright?” she checked.

“Fine,” Boyd replied, glancing back over his shoulder to where Lydia was now mumbling something under her breath.  “She wasn’t keen on breakfast this morning, but I pilfered a bag of dried fruit.  We can keep trying in here.”

“Okay, that’s fine, that’s…” Allison trailed off, running a sweaty hand through her hair as she tried to sort through the crush of information in her brain.  Sighing, she dropped to floor and patted the carpet, too tired to bother finding a chair.  “Sit down.  I need to tell you what happened.”

It didn’t take long.  Ten minutes, maybe, to catch them up on everything.  On Scott’s explanation about Stiles’ spark, on her decision to leave and Jackson’s surprising insistence on following, on their infiltration into the station which was far too easy until it wasn’t.  Ten minutes, to explain one of the worst nights of her life.

“Wait, back up a second,” Boyd frowned when she finally fell silent.  “Before the twins found you.  What was the smell Scott noticed?”

Allison wracked her brain, trying to recall the tiny detail from the mass of events.  “Uh, fertiliser, I think? Why?”

Boyd’s eyes widened in horror, and two things happened almost simultaneously.

Shouts of alarm burst across the silence, accompanied by the low grumble of engines.

And Lydia screamed.

* * *

Stiles woke with a gasp.

Then he yelped and clapped a hand to the back of his neck as sharp pain lanced out from four deep wounds.  Scrunching his eyes shut as though to block it out, he muttered a volley of curse words and tilted his head skyward.   

Fucking hell.  Had it hurt this much for Jackson, back in sophomore year?

“Stiles?”

Stiles instantly stilled.  His back was pressed against familiar steel bars, so he knew he was still in the Sheriff’s station, but if Scott was here…

Dread flooded his limbs, and he reluctantly opened his eyes.  The first thing he saw was a barred ceiling – yep, he was still in one of the holding cells, although weirdly it looked like the one nearest the door – but worse than that, he was no longer alone.  In the next cell, Scott wore a relieved grin that was at odds with his pale face and blood-stained clothes while Derek stood beside him, fists clenched even as his eyebrows lifted in surprise.  Jackson sat in the far corner of the cage, one side of his face purpled and swollen, and his right arm bandaged into a make-shift splint.

Stiles hissed in sympathy.  “Shit, Jackson.  Is that broken?”

Jackson somehow managed to arc a disparaging eyebrow, swollen face or no.  “Obviously,” he said dryly.  “Here’s a better question: what the hell happened to you?”

That… _was_ a good question, actually.  Stiles licked his lips, uncomfortably aware of his bone-dry mouth, and hesitantly brushed his fingers over his neck.  Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the flare of pain and gently mapped out the too-familiar shape with his fingertips.  Peter had clawed him, and then -

The memory slammed into him like a truck.  Scrambling to his feet, he glanced frantically around his bare cell, then the rest of the room.  But there was no one there – no green eyes, no wicked smirk, no strawberry blonde hair.  She was gone.

Stiles sagged against the cell wall in disappointment, then scowled at Jackson’s unimpressed stare.  Oh, wait.  He was still waiting on an answer.

“Peter,” he finally explained, glancing at Derek in time to see his expression darken.  “He wanted information and he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he did that claw thing.  You know.”  He bent his fingers into an imitation of a clawed hand and mimed sinking them into his neck. 

Jackson crinkled his nose in disgust while Derek nodded, unsurprised.  “I thought so.  But it doesn’t matter, now.”  Stepping forward, he pinned Stiles with a sharp look.  “He’s planning to use you, one way or another.  Is the spark back?”

“He – what?  Why would he –?”

Stiles snapped his mouth shut at Derek’s impatient glare.  Was the spark back?  Taking a deep breath, he turned his attention inward.  It came easier, now, and…there, right next to his heart, was a tiny lick of flame.  _Hey, there._ The flame flickered, just slightly, in response, and Stiles smiled.  _Good to have to you back_ , he thought with relief, and was surprised to find that he meant it.  Desperate times, and all that.

Raising his head, Stiles gave Derek a small nod.  “It’s there, but barely. I don’t think it’s enough to actually _do_ anything.”

Disturbingly, Derek didn’t look reassured.  Instead, the alpha’s brow knotted even further and he took another step closer to the bars that separated their cages.   He wore the same expression that he always did just before barking orders, so Stiles decided to jump in before he could.

 “So, I have three questions,” Stiles announced, speaking rapidly so Derek couldn’t cut him off and thrusting an index finger into the air.  “One: why do you look like the world’s about to end?  Two:” he raised a second finger as he continued, “what did you mean about Peter wanting to use me?  And, three:” here, he raised his third finger and allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk as Derek glowered at it in irritation, “why are Scott and Jackson glued to the ground?”

“Oh, I’ll take that one,” Scott volunteered.  He waved his hand in the air, then let it smack his leg in annoyance.  “We’re slowly recovering from being paralysed. Supernatural venom from a giant lizard – who knew, right?”

_A giant_ – _oh._ Stiles buried his face in his hands with a groan.  “There’s a kanima here?  Man, I hate those things. No offence, Jackson.”

From between his fingers, Stiles saw the blonde stare at him with his one good eye, nonplussed.  “Why would I be offended?”

“Because you…” Stiles trailed off and hesitantly lowered his hands, realising the other two were also looking at him in confusion.  “Huh, I guess that didn’t happen here.  Never mind, then.”

Scott looked curious, but Derek cut in before they could get side-tracked. “To answer your other questions,” he interrupted, tugging listlessly at a nearby bar, “Peter says he’s getting out of town in the morning, and he’s using you to do it.”

Stiles surprised himself by letting out a short bark of laughter.  “That’s ridiculous,” he chortled. “I don’t even know how to control this thing.  And why would I help him?”

Derek didn’t seem to share his humour.  Anguish twisted his features as his hand tightened on the metal bar, hard enough to leave a dent.  “I don’t know what he’s thinking.”  By his tone, he considered that a personal failing.  “But Peter knows more about sparks than any of us, and he’s not the impulsive type.  He’ll have a plan.”

Stiles swallowed, hand once more drifting to his neck before he realised what he was doing and yanked it back down.  The wounds throbbed in time with his heart and he clamped his hands together to hide the his suddenly-trembling fingers.  “Alright, so, what’s _our_ plan?” he demanded.  “Is someone coming for us?  Are we fighting our way out?  Is this a stealth mission? Also, side note, does anyone else find it weird that Peter doesn’t have any guards in here?  Talk about overconfidence - someone really ought to have a word with him.”

“Stiles.”  Derek’s jaw was clenched hard enough to break, but it was Scott who spoke.  His dark eyes were steady and his voice firm, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.  “Stiles, there’s no plan.  Our plan failed.”

A fist tightened around Stiles’ heart even as he shook his head.  “No, _no_ ,” he argued, waving a finger at his friend.  “No, we always have a plan.  And a plan B.  And usually C through F, although I’ll admit that’s more me than you, and when they fall apart we figure something else out.  We’re good at pulling plans out of our asses, so.  What is it?”

Scott’s eyes tightened.  “I’m not him, Stiles.”

The blatant hurt in his tone cut through Stiles’ panic like a knife.  A lump formed in Stiles’ throat, and he pressed his lips together in frustration. 

Because, yeah.  Somewhere along the line…or, if he was being honest, from the minute he first set eyes on Scott, the line between his version and this new one had blurred.  Part of him had warned against it, arguing that it wasn’t fair to either of them to treat Scott with such familiarity, but he hadn’t been able to help it.  This Scott spoke freely, he never worried about reopening old wounds with a casual remark.  This Scott didn’t watch him when he thought he wasn’t looking, dark eyes conflicted.  This Scott had never held a bloodied wrench in his hand and accused him of unspeakable things, made worse by the fact that they were true.  It was like having a second chance at the best friendship he’d ever ruined, and despite himself he’d grabbed it with both hands.

Stiles’ jaw worked, silently.  Of fucking course he would ruin it again.  Maybe that was fate.  Maybe it was the one constant of every parallel universe, that Scott and Stiles would always fall apart.

The silence was broken by a scraping sound.  It was Scott, dragging himself toward the bars of Stiles’ cell, then reaching out and grabbing hold.  His legs hung uselessly behind him as he pulled his body upright, climbing the bars until he was at standing height, and then he propped his feet on the ground and tentatively shifted his weight.  Somehow, his legs held, and he exhaled in relief as he raised his head to meet Stiles’ gaze.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Scott said, softly.  He pushed one hand through the bars, offering his hand to Stiles.  “I know this is still weird for you.”

Stiles hesitated only a moment before closing the distance and grabbing Scott’s hand like a lifeline.  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, all-too-aware of Derek staring pointedly at his feet while Jackson gawked openly from the corner.  “I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

Surprisingly, Scott responded with a warm smile.  “Honestly, it’s kind of flattering.  It’s nice to know there’s a version of me out there who’s kicking butt and taking names.  Almost wish I could meet him.  But, Stiles,” and now his smile faded and worry creased his brow, “it’s not looking good.  We’re surrounded by mountain ash, the kanima creeps in every few hours to re-paralyse us, and even if Allison rallies the others, they’re not going to come until tonight at the earliest.  By then, it’ll be too late.”

Stiles shook his head, releasing Scott’s hand.  “There’s got to be something we can do.  Maybe I can try something?”

Scott’s dark eyes studied him for a moment, unreadable, then nodded.  “Okay,” he said, ignoring Jackson’s muttered oath from behind.  “I trust you.”

Despite himself, Stiles snorted a laugh.  “Oh, that’s a bad idea.”  Still, he determinedly took a step back, as though putting a foot of distance between them would make any difference if something went wrong.  “Remember what happened last time?”

Scott rolled his eyes, and suddenly he looked like a teenager again, rather than a world-wearied survivor.  “It was literally yesterday, dude.”

Stiles met his grin with one of his own before turning his attention inward.  The flame was there, all he had to do was –

A loud bang broke the silence, startling him out of his thoughts.  Spinning on his heel, he inhaled sharply at the sight of a half-dozen men and women striding confidently through the now-open doorway, some baring teeth and fangs, all of them carrying rifles.  On the ceiling, a scaly-green kanima crawled toward the cells, long tongue fanning from its mouth.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a woman drawled.  “I suppose that will make things easier.”

Stiles reluctantly dragged his attention toward her, groaning when he recognised her brown skin and dark hair.  “Kali,” he greeted, sourly.  “Of course you’re here.  Might as well invite the Darach and Dread Doctors while we’re at it.”

If Kali was surprised that he recognised her, she didn’t show it.  Her dark eyes glittered over her proud nose, and she stared at him for only a moment before turning to the next cell. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she announced, sounding almost bored.  “We’re going to take him, and you’re going to let us.  You kick up a fuss, you’ll be paralysed.  You try to attack, you’ll be shot.  Understood?”

None of the wolves replied, unless Stiles counted Derek’s furious glare.

Kali didn’t seem to care one way or the other.  She let the glare slide off her and turned to her companions.  “Get him out of there,” she snapped.

Two small women stepped out of the pack to unlock his cell.  Kali stayed where she was, as did the larger werewolves flanking her, and moment later Stiles realised why: at her feet, encircling all three holding cells, was a thick line of fine, black ash.

The lock clicked and the cell door swung open.  For a wild moment, Stiles eyed the distance to the door and considered making a break for it, but a pointed cough brought his attention back to the two women, now aiming rifles directly at him from point-blank range.

So, that was that.

Stiles raised his hands in surrender and stepped out of the cell, turning his attention once more to his heart.  The spark was right where it had been, so he mentally grasped it and _pulled._ Within seconds, it flared to a bundle of flames that filled his chest and spilled over his collarbones, flowing down his arms with an ease that was so right, so natural, that he could have been convinced that he’d done this a hundred times before.

Before he could overthink it, he gathered the fire into his hands and _pushed._

A small front of air, no more forceful than a light breeze, raced toward Kali.  It tugged at her hair, briefly fanning it out behind her, before fading away to leave a horrible, empty, stillness in its wake.

Kali froze. Her dark eyes flicked to Stiles’, momentarily wide with surprise before crinkling in amusement.  “Is that it?” she laughed.  “Peter did say you were burned out.”

Fear froze Stiles’ lungs and rang in his ears, distracting him enough that the words didn’t immediately register.  When they finally sank in, though, he blinked at her in confusion.  “Wait, Peter _knows_ I’m burned out?” he echoed.  “Then what is he planning?”

Kali’s lip curled.  “There are ways,” she responded, cryptically.  Abruptly, she twisted toward the door and tossed a final order over her shoulder.  “Someone restrain his hands.”

The man nearest Stiles – a middle-aged, bearded fellow with golden eyes and clawed hands – gave Stiles a sympathetic look before twisting his arms behind his back.  His enormous hands easily encircled both of Stiles’ wrists, and he tightened his fingers once, warningly, before relaxing into much less painful grip.  “Don’t give me a reason to hurt you,” he warned. 

Stiles shot him a sardonic side-eyed glare.  “As if you need one.”

He had braced himself for another squeeze of his wrists, or maybe a forceful shove.  To his surprise, though, the bearded man merely grimaced.  “I don’t like their methods, you know,” he muttered, voice pitched low to avoid being overheard.  “In other circumstances…well, it is what it is.  Peter says he can get us out if we cooperate, and I have a daughter, you understand?  I can’t help her from in here.  You understand, right?”

Did he understand?  Stiles tried to imagine it: being trapped here, helpless, while his father was in mortal danger somewhere frustratingly out of reach.   

_Leaving Scott to die at the hands of his own beta because his father was bleeding to death on a dilapidated concrete floor._

Yeah.  Yeah, he could understand.

The bearded man prodded Stiles into a walk and they set off, the pace limited by Stiles’ awkward position.  Frantically, Stiles craned his neck, trying to glimpse his friends one last time before leaving the room.

Instead, his gaze landed on the line of mountain ash, lying thick and steady in a circle around the cells. 

This time, Stiles didn’t have to search for the spark.  It swelled within him automatically, spreading down his arms and into his hands in the space of a single heartbeat.  It was weaker than before, quiet as a whisper, but that was okay.  He didn’t need much.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he focussed on the line of ash and imagined it moving, the tiny specks of dusting shifting and swirling, separating to leave a clear path on the tiles.

Then then it did.  He felt the heat ripple out from him, and a moment later the line broke, right before his eyes.

Relieved, he let the heat simmer down to its usual lick of flame and allowed the bearded man to propel him through the door. The last thing he saw was Derek stepping up to his cell door, staring at the break in the line as his fists clenched in determination.

 


	21. The Build

Lydia’s scream faded into a silence so deafening it was almost painful.  Something warm trickled between Allison’s fingers, and she grimaced in distaste when she finally pulled her bloodstained hands away from her ears.  _Ow.  Jesus, Lydia._

Still, at least she had fared better than the boys.  Both Isaac and Boyd were huddled helplessly on the floor, hands clamped firmly over their ears as agony wrote lines on both their faces.  _Werewolf hearing_ , Allison remembered with a wince.  If the scream was painful for her, it would have been terrible for them.

Lydia was slumped against the wall, legs trembling dangerously beneath her, so Allison put a steadying hand on her shoulder before turning back to the others.  “Are you guys okay?” she murmured softly.

It wasn’t quiet enough, judging by the way Boyd flinched and scrubbed the palm of one hand over his ear.  Isaac seemed to be recovering, though, and he responded by climbing unsteadily to his feet and shooting Lydia a flat glance.  Waving away Allison’s offer of help, he stepped closer to the door and cracked it open, his mouth instantly tightening with worry.  “There’s a bunch of cars idling in the carpark,” he reported.  “Looks like everyone’s streaming out of the school to meet them.”

Allison’s heart jumped and she scurried over to join him, gasping softly at the sight.  It wasn’t just one or two cars but rather an entire _fleet_ packed into the main carpark of the school.  “Do you think it’s Peter?”

“Must be,” Isaac replied, unhappily.  “No one else has that many vehicles, let alone the gas to run them.  Looks like he brought the whole crew.”

“Guys.”

“But, why?” Allison squinted, trying to make out the details.  Someone stepped out of one of the trucks to face the crowd, but they were too far away for her to make out their face. “If he was going to attack us, he wouldn’t knock on the front door.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Isaac muttered dryly.  But then he shook his head.  “No, I think you’re right.  If I had to guess, I’d say he’s on another recruitment drive.  He’s brought everyone to scare people into joining him.  Intimidation is the only language he knows.”

“Guys!”

Allison jumped at the voice.  Hoarse and breaking painfully, it was still instantly recognisable and it sent all thoughts of Peter flying out of her head as she spun to gape at her friend.   “ _Lydia?_ ”

The redhead tossed her head in reply, and her sharp eyes directly met Allison’s gaze.

Allison swayed, dizzy with shock.  “Lydia?” she repeated, tears springing to her eyes.  “You’re awake?”

Lydia smiled, but it didn’t meet her eyes.  “Yeah, hi, it’s me,” she rasped. She winced as she spoke, one hand massaging her throat, but continued on regardless.  “I missed you too, Allison, and I love you, but right now we don’t have time.  Everyone here is in danger.”

Allison blinked, brain still not functioning.  “What?”

“I don’t know how I know,” Lydia said.  Then she frowned a little and cocked her head.  “Or maybe I do.  Banshee, right?  That’s what the boy – Stiles, wasn’t it? – that’s what he said.  I think he might be right.”

“You remember that?” 

A flicker of pain crossed Lydia’s face, filling Allison with instant regret.   “I remember a lot of things,” the redhead murmured.  She pressed her lips together tightly, one hand creeping up to grasp a lock of hair and give it a gentle tug.  “Too many things.”

Then she gave herself a shake, and when she next spoke her voice was sharper, clearer, more desperate than Allison had ever heard it.  “I know this sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.  Something bad is going to happen, right here.  We need to get everyone out.”

“Fertiliser,” Boyd suddenly interjected.  He straightened, gaze flitting from Allison to Lydia before stopping on Isaac.  “Scott smelled fertiliser in the Sherriff’s station. That’s what you use to make homemade bombs.”

The blood instantly drained from Isaac’s face.  “I’ll tell Satomi,” he barked, swinging the door wide open.  “Boyd – look for the bomb.  Allison – get Lydia out of here.”

“Wait!”  Allison protested, but it was too late.  The boys darted out of the building almost before Isaac had finished speaking, and within seconds they had already halved the distance between the music room and the main school building.  They’d never hear her, even if they wanted to slow down long enough to listen.      

Annoyed, she turned back to Lydia.  “I suppose we should – what are you doing?”

Lydia paused mid-stride to give Allison a startled glance.  “I’m going to look for the bomb, of course.  Are you really going to leave it to Boyd?”  

Allison realised she was gaping again and closed her mouth with a snap.  _She doesn’t even look scared.  Since when does Lydia Martin, of all people, rush headfirst into danger?_ Mind whirling, she shook her head and hurried to catch up.

By the time they made it into the building, Boyd had already disappeared into its depths.  Allison suppressed a wave of annoyance and focussed on beginning her own search.  Wrenching open the nearest door, she strode inside then stopped, glancing around a little helplessly.  “What am I even looking for?”

Lydia peered into a dark corner and answered almost without thinking.  “A sealed container with a detonator, more or less.  ANFO bombs aren’t exactly high-tech.”

Allison froze.  _What the hell, Lydia?_

She was well-aware that she was staring at the banshee like she’d grown a second head, and after a moment Lydia noticed.  The girl blinked, then cringed guiltily as a faint blush spread from her neck to her cheeks.

It only lasted a second before Lydia schooled her features into something more haughty.  “Do you really want to have this discussion right now?” she demanded, pointedly ignoring her deepening flush.  “Or should we keep searching for the bomb that could potentially explode at any moment?”

Strangely, Allison found herself suppressing slightly-hysterical giggles.  _Has the world always been this insane?_ she wondered, feverishly.  _Or have I finally cracked?_ Lydia Martin, with the coy smiles and the pretty dresses and the perfect hair, apparently knew how to make a homemade bomb.

Hell really had frozen over.

Still, the banshee had a point.  Choking back her laughter, Allison shook her head and turned back to the room at large.  “Don’t think I’m letting this go,” she warned, not entirely jokingly.

It didn’t take long to finish their sweep of the room since most of the furniture had already been removed to make way for a handful of mattresses, so soon enough the two girls were stepping back into the hallway empty-handed. 

Allison squinted at Lydia, considering.  “You don’t happen to know the best place to plant it, by any chance?”

“Best place to plant what?”

Adrenaline surged through Allison’s veins, and in under a second she had whirled to face the newcomer, a knife clutched in each hand and feet poised to lunge. 

Then she recognised the dark-haired woman shrinking away from her in fear, and Allison’s fight vanished in an instant.  “Bec,” she gasped, resting back on her heels.  “You scared the crap out of me.”

Bec arched an eyebrow, her hands still raised in surrender. “I noticed,” she said in a tone that was aiming for dry, but ended up a little too thin to be believable. 

Cheeks burning, Allison hastily shoved her knives back into her belt.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m just a little on edge.”

Luckily, Bec’s fear seemed to dissipate as quickly as it arrived. The dark-haired woman glanced curiously into the makeshift bedroom as she lowered her hands.  “Why are you back here when everyone else is out front?”

Suddenly suspicious, Allison narrowed her eyes.  “Why are you?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Allison had always liked Bec.  The woman was good-natured, friendly, with an upbeat nature that set everyone at ease.  Now, though, her good humour abruptly vanished and she levelled Allison with a distinctly unimpressed stare.  “I was looking after the kids, Allison, and I heard doors slamming.  Thought it might be Peter’s lot sneaking in the back, so I came to check it out.”

_Oh.  That makes sense.  Get it together, Argent._

“There are kids in here?” Lydia interjected. 

Bec leapt nearly a foot in the air, biting off a loud curse before turning to stare open-mouthed at the smaller girl.  “Woah, what?  You talk now?”

Lydia’s green eyes flashed in annoyance and she planted both her fists on her hips.  If Allison didn’t know better, she would have thought she looked utterly confident – save for the slight tremble to her arm and heightened pitch of her voice.  “No time for that,” Lydia snapped.  “There’s maybe – probably – a bomb somewhere in this building.  If there’s kids in here, you need to get them out _now._ ”

Bec blinked, her face rapidly paling.  “How do you –?” Breaking off, she glanced questioningly at Allison, who nodded in confirmation.

“Okay, okay.”  Pursing her lips, Bec released a long breath and glanced back down the corridor, apparently reaching a decision.  “Just give me a second.  Don’t go anywhere.”

She darted down the corridor and disappeared around a corner. Allison took advantage of her absence to wrench open the next door.  It was a storage cupboard, so it only took a minute of studying the shelves for her to be satisfied that there were no hidden explosives, and she slammed it shut with a huff.

By the time she was done, Bec was leading a group of school-aged children and two older adults back down the hallway, head bent to talk to the white-haired gentleman striding by her side.  “Head straight to the Preserve,” she instructed, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly with one hand.  “I’ll catch up with you there.”

The man nodded, but his worry lines deepened as Bec came to a stop next to Allison and Lydia.  “Be safe,” he murmured, and he waited until Bec gave him a reassuring nod before ushering the kids out the door.

Finally, they were gone.  Allison thought she might feel relieved, but if she did it was immediately swamped by anxiety as she tried to figure out how to approach their monumental task.

It didn’t help that Bec had immediately settled into an expression so determined that it bordered on angry.  “I think we should split up,” she announced.  “We’ll cover more ground that way.  Unless you know roughly where it is?”

Allison shook her head, but Lydia hesitated, a reluctant grimace crossing her features.  “I’m pretty sure…the basement.”  She noticed Allison’s questioning stare and shrugged helplessly in reply.  “That’s where I started out in the…dream…vision…thing.  I don’t know how to explain it.”

Allison paused as she considered that, then gave a shrug of her own.   “Well, I don’t have any better suggestions.  Do you know how to get there?”

“I do,” Bec said slowly, when Lydia shook her head.  She sounded uncertain, like she’d rather be putting her faith in something more than a dream, but she didn’t voice any complaints.  “Follow me.”

The older woman led the way deeper into the building, turning this way and that before stopping at a faded grey door.  It was locked, but it only took one slam of Bec’s narrow shoulders to break it open and reveal a dark, narrow staircase.

Allison studied the room as they carefully made their way down.  It wasn’t a true basement – while most of the room was underground, there were dusty windows near the ceiling that let in a little natural light.  One of them was broken, and beams of sunlight were bouncing off the shards of glass to illuminate several thick pipes wending away from the boiler and rows of dusty shelves bristling out from the far wall.

Then something moved in the shadows and Allison immediately turned toward it, knives in hand and senses on high alert.  Beside her, Bec suddenly tensed.  “Who’s there?” Bec called out, sharply.  “No one should be down here.”

Whoever it was didn’t reply, but they shifted a little and drew Allison’s gaze.  She could sort of made them out – it was a man, she thought, judging by his height and the breadth of his shoulders. 

Then he stepped into the light, and she hastily amended her assessment.  A teenage boy, no older than herself, with bright blue eyes and a face that she would have enjoyed if he weren’t flexing his clawed hands and watching them hungrily.

_He’s weighing us up_ , she realised, gripping her knives a little tighter and ignoring the nervous flutter of her heart.  _Trying to decide if he can take all three of us._

_No point waiting for him to figure it out._ Quick as a flash, she drew one arm back and flung her knife directly at his chest.  She just caught his startled expression before he threw himself to the side, missing the blade by inches, and then it was on.

He lunged forward and Allison did the same, pushing off the balustrade to sail over his head and land sure-footedly on the concrete behind him.  She held her one remaining knife before her like a prayer and lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, ready to spring in any direction. 

The werewolf flipped back to face her, his movements almost too quick to follow, and eyed her dagger with a smirk.  “Is that all you’ve got, human?”

“No.”  A long, silver blade suddenly appeared across the werewolf’s throat.  Its fine edge just barely cut into his skin, ready to slice right through if he so much as twitched. “She’s got me.”

Stunned, Allison followed the long line of the blade – _wait, is that a katana?_ – to its owner.  Bec stood on the ground floor, her stance light but sure, her irises glowing amber, the sword fitting her hand as though it was part of her. 

“I’ve got this, Allison,” Bec said, not taking her eyes off the werewolf.  As though to illustrate the point, a few sparks of electricity leapt from her hand into the blade, making the boy whimper in pain.  “You’re supposed to be looking for something, remember?”

“Right.”  Allison pressed her lips together, wrenching her thoughts back to her task.  With one last suspicious look at the werewolf – but, no, he wasn’t going anywhere – she turned and plunged into the shadows. 

Lydia appeared at her side, her jaw tight with something that might have been fear or might have been determination, Allison wasn’t sure.  Either way, she peered into the darkness with the same intensity as Allison, and the huntress wasn’t going to turn away an extra set of eyes.

When they had nearly reached the far end of the room, Lydia stopped and stared down a pathway to her right.  “There,” she said, pointing into the shadows.  “That’s it.”

Cautiously, Allison walked toward the object.  It was a little larger than she had expected, but still small enough to nestle comfortably against a concrete column.  “Are you sure?” Allison checked, uncertain.  “It’s so nondescript.”

Lydia shot her an impatient look and brushed past.  “See this?” she remarked, tapping the column with one finger before crouching before the box.  “I’d bet you anything it’s load bearing.”  She reached out and started fiddling with something, making Allison’s heart stutter to a stop.

“What are you -?” Allison never got to finish her embarrassingly high-pitched question as Lydia finished whatever she was doing and rested back on her heels.  There was something small clutched in her hand, and she looked almost…satisfied? 

The redhead smirked in amusement at the look on Allison’ face.  “Here,” she chirped, thrusting the object into Allison’s hands.  “ANFO bombs don’t work without a primer.”

Allison’s glanced down at the object and hissed in shock.  She’d spent enough time around hunters to recognise a detonator when she saw one.  Not wanting to hold it any longer than necessary, she spotted a crowded shelf that hadn’t been touched in years and slid the detonator into a small space at the back.  Then she turned back to study her friend who, for some reason, seemed entirely unruffled by the fact that she had just single-handedly disabled a bomb.  “How did you know how to do that?” Allison blurted out before she could stop herself.

The redhead sniffed.  “It’s just chemistry.” 

_As though that explains everything._ Frustrated, Allison took a deep breath and reminded herself that they had bigger problems to deal with.  “We should keep looking,” she finally said. “I doubt they just made one.”

Whatever Lydia was going to say was drowned out by an agonised yell.  It came from the direction of the staircase and Allison leapt to her feet, pausing just long enough to exchange a glance with the suddenly-pale banshee before sprinting toward the noise. 

She skidded to a stop when she rounded the corner, then slipped behind the nearest row of shelves and pulled Lydia in beside her.   

In front of the staircase, Bec was kneeling on the concrete ground, surrounded by two identical werewolves.  She had lost her katana, but apparently not before burying the blade deep into one of the werewolves’ thighs.  He was gasping in pain as he clutched at the hilt, clearly working up the courage to yank it free.  The other wolf – the original one, Allison thought, judging by the thin red line ringing his neck – was standing behind Bec, his ridged face twisted in fury and his hands resting on either side of her neck.  Allison’s breath caught when she realised his claws were buried an inch deep into her flesh. 

“You alright, Aiden?” the original boy asked, not tearing his gaze away from Bec.

The other werewolf wrenched the sword out of his leg with a pained grunt before straightening, seemingly uncaring of the way his blood began to pour onto the floor.  “Just peachy,” he muttered.  Narrowing his eyes, he hefted the katana in one hand and tested its weight, then turned to Bec with an oddly thoughtful expression.  

_Okay, I’ve seen enough._ Allison’s heart was hammering so loudly she was surprised the werewolves couldn’t hear it, but they never so much as glanced in her direction.  The angle was too awkward for her crossbow – the shelves that were giving them cover would just as thoroughly impede her shot, and she didn’t have time to reposition – so she gripped her short belt-knife and pressed her lips together as she planned her approach.  She wouldn’t stand a chance against two werewolves, but maybe if she caught one of them by surprise…

Something gripped her shirt and dragged her backward.

 “Don’t,” Lydia hissed, twisting her fingers deeper into the fabric.  “They’ll kill you both.”

Allison tried to wrest away from her – _she needs our help!_ – but at that moment Bec twisted her lip into a sneer, amber eyes glowing bright as she met the twin’s stare with a glare of her own.  “Go ahead,” she spat.  For a moment, so brief it was barely noticeable, her eyes flickered to where Allison and Lydia were hiding.  “Just go.”

Allison’s breath froze.  _No._ She wanted to yell. She wanted to fight.  She wanted to tear the twins apart with her bare hands.

But all she could do was watch, helplessly, as Aiden snarled and lifted the sword.  Her hand clenched her knife, so small and useless, while Lydia tugged frantically at her sleeve and Bec shifted her gaze to the blade.

“Allison, come _on._ ”

In in the end, it was Lydia’s terrified voice that broke the spell.  Choking back a sob, Allison stumbled after the redhead to the broken window, a flood of guilt crashing over her as she silently slid through the empty frame.

The last thing she heard as she rolled onto the grass outside was the sickening thud of a head hitting the floor.

* * *

Isaac pushed his way through the crowd, not even pretending to apologise when his elbow jabbed into someone’s ribcage.  Luckily, his victim was too absorbed in watching the scene ahead to care.

And now that Isaac was finally close enough to see what was going on, he could understand why.

Satomi was standing at the front the crowd, her arms folded sternly across her chest.  Her face was smooth and expressionless, but there was a hardness to her eyes as she stared at Peter Hale, who was completely ignoring her in favour of addressing everyone else.

“I’m not your enemy,” Peter announced, letting his eyes roam slowly over the crowd, pausing now and then to make eye contact with various listeners.  “The people _out there,_ who locked us in here and threw away the key, who treated us like animals, who spent the last year trying to decide whether or not we deserve to live.  _They_ are the true enemy.”

“Those are dangerous words, Peter.”  Satomi’s voice was quiet, and if Isaac didn’t know her so well he would have missed the threatening edge to her tone. “You speak of war.”

“That’s because we are at war.  And, right now, we’re losing.”

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Isaac did his best to tune out Peter and figure out a plan.  Alerting Satomi was out the window – the way she was positioned, he’d never be able to talk to her without Peter overhearing.  But he needed to get people to leave.

Suppressing a wave of panic, he ducked his head and turned to nudge his way back through the throng.

“That’s not true.”  Satomi was projecting her voice, clearly wanting to make sure she was heard by as many people as possible.  “The humans have moved past their fear of us - they want safety, not genocide.  There is no need for violence – negotiations are almost resolved.  I expect to be free of this place within weeks, a few months at most.”

“Hey,” Isaac whispered when he reached the back of the crowd, taking a small dark-haired girl by the arm.  Her name was Amy – he’d done a food run with her once, and despite her obvious nerves she’d turned out to have a good head and a better knack for following orders. 

She startled at his touch, but relaxed when she saw his apologetic grimace so Isaac took that as permission to lean a little closer.  “I need to tell you something, but you need to stay calm, okay?” he breathed, as softly as he could.  “I don’t want them to notice we’re worried.” 

His anxiety spiked when Amy immediately tensed, but it only lasted a moment before she smoothed her features and turned back to Peter, appearing for all the world to be listening intently.

Isaac almost smiled at his brief flash of unearned pride.  Satomi really knew how to pick them.

“ – she would keep you all trapped here for years if it kept her in power.  What proof has she given of these negotiations?  Does she expect you to just take her word?”

“It’s possible there’s a bomb on campus,” Isaac murmured after a beat, ignoring Peter’s grandstanding.  “If you backtrack a few steps, you’ll be out of sight behind the building.  Then head for the Preserve, okay?”

“What about everyone else?”

It was a good question, and Isaac tried to sound confident as he replied.  “I’ll get them out.”

Amy looked doubtful, but she must have realised there was no time for debate.  As soon as Peter’s eyes swept to the other end of the crowd, she stepped backward, and Isaac released a sigh of relief as she disappeared from view.

“Hey,” he said quietly, reaching out for the nearest bystander.  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Within minutes, he had quietly convinced two more people to leave – a plump middle-aged woman and a pimply teenage boy –and sidled across to the next person in line.  Six-foot-tall and tattooed, the man shot Isaac an irritated look and pulled his arm out of the teenager’s grip as Peter’s voice rang out over the crowd. 

“I came here today to give you a choice,” the werewolf declared, and his voice was so raw, so earnest, that Isaac almost believed him.  Almost.  “You can sit here, penned up like sheep waiting for the slaughter, putting your life and your freedom into Satomi’s hands.  Or you can come with me.  We’re leaving this prison today, and you’re all invited to join us.  Every last one of you.”

A murmur swept through the listening crowd, and even Isaac found himself gaping at Peter, a sickly spectre of hope ballooning in his chest.  A way out?  How was that even possible? 

_Stiles_ , he realised, abruptly.  Something to do with Stiles, it had to be.

Then the implication struck home and his stomach lurched nauseatingly.  If Peter and his people escaped, if they took their anger and hatred and thirst for revenge to the outside world…the last year would all be for nothing.  The humans’ fears would be justified, and Satomi’s negotiations would be dead in the water.  

It couldn’t happen.

_I can’t let it happen.  But how?_

At the front of the crowd, Peter was still talking.  “Satomi says she will give you freedom.  But stop and think about it, for a moment.  How many rights do you think the humans will afford you, if they decide to let you leave?  How many restrictions will be placed on your actions?  How closely will your movements be monitored? 

“Did any of you ever stop to think about what negotiations involve?  There’s only one reason why they’ve taken so long, and I think you all know it.  She’s selling you out, one compromise at a time.  One of your rights at a time.”

Isaac glanced at the large man beside him and instinctively took a half-step back.  Something akin to realisation was dawning on his face, and with it came pure, unadulterated fury.  His jaw was clenched, his hands slowly curling into fists, and a soft growl emanated from his throat.

Heart sinking, Isaac dragged his gaze over the rest of the crowd.  Most people, thankfully, were still eyeing Peter with suspicion.  But some stared at Satomi like they’d never seen her before, resentment and horror and open betrayal written across their faces, and others tensed with barely-controlled rage.

Shit.

Isaac silently slipped through the crowd, keeping his head down as he studied the sea of faces, not stopping until he spied an elderly man with grey hair and wrinkled skin who was eyeing Peter with open disgust.  He’d never bothered to learn the man’s name, but he’d seen him around the camp more than a few times and he carried himself with an air of having seen it all. 

He was a safer bet than the angry tattooed guy, at the very least.

Isaac waited until he was directly behind the man before speaking. “Stay quiet and don’t react,” he breathed, barely relaxing when the man did as he was told.  Succinctly, he explained about the bomb and gave the same instructions at he had to the others, but to his surprise the man shook his head.

“I’m not going to run, boy,” the man whispered, not taking his eyes off Peter.  “I’ll spread the word, though, if you want to get out while you can.  This is going to boil over, soon.”

Frowning, Isaac only hesitated a moment before shaking his head.  “No,” he disagreed, allowing his gaze to wander over the people nearby.  He didn’t know many of them by name – a deliberate choice on his part, an attempt to protect his heart from inevitable pain - but he still _knew_ these people.  The beautiful dark-skinned woman ahead and to his left: she had brought him food last winter, when he was laid up with a strange virus that made him weak as a kitten.  He could vividly remember her kind smile and cool hands as she pushed his hair out of his face and helped him sit.  The burly man standing behind her, eyes slitted and arms crossed, every inch of him guarded: he had saved Isaac’s life, once, when his temper had got the better of him and he picked a fight with one of Peter’s men.  It had been three werewolves to one until that man had appeared out of nowhere and taken all three down with barely a struggle.  “No,” he said again, more firmly.  “He’s recruiting, sure.  But these people are a community - they won’t turn on each other that easily.”

The old man gave Isaac a sideways glance.  “You don’t really believe that.”

_You’re right, I don’t,_ Isaac thought bitterly.  “There are good people, here, though.  I’m not leaving until I’ve got them out of here.”

“It’s a nice thought, kid,” sighed the old man, before gesturing at Peter with a crooked finger.  “But I think you’re out of time.”

“What are you - ?”  Cutting off his own sentence, Isaac fought back a cry as he noticed Allison and Lydia slipping into the back of the crowd.  They were trying to be discreet, but their distracted eyes and nervous expressions made it obvious they’d only just arrived.  _What are they doing here?  They should be long gone!_

Swallowing against a suddenly-dry throat, he glanced back at the front of the crowd and inhaled sharply as he found himself staring directly into Peter’s blue gaze.  The werewolf smirked and didn’t so much as blink as he flung his arms out to his sides.  “So, who’s with me?” he bellowed.

The mutters of the crowd cut out in a heartbeat, replaced by a pregnant pause.  For a moment, no one moved, and Isaac dared to feel a sliver of hope – but then the tattooed man began to walk forward.  And a blonde woman, immediately behind Satomi, who determinedly avoided Satomi’s outstretched hand and broken expression.  A teenager, and another man, and an elderly woman who leaned heavily on a stick as she stepped out from the crowd.  Peter offered her his arm and an ingratiating smile, helping him into the arms of a vaguely-familiar Indian woman.

And that was it.

_Five_ , Isaac thought, straightening with a flash of pride.  _Only five, Peter.  You’ll have to try harder than that._

Peter’s lips were pressed together tightly, his expression severe as he turned back to the crowd.  “So be it,” he muttered. 

Raising his hand, he made a sudden, sharp gesture in the air.

And the world exploded.


	22. The Storm (Part 1)

The explosion knocked Isaac off his feet.

A wall of air sent him careering forward and he would have slammed face-first into the ground if he hadn’t managed to throw his hands up with milliseconds to spare.  The bitumen ripped into his skin, stinging his palms, and he wrenched his head backward just in time to stop it smashing against the ground.  The muscles in his neck screamed in protest and the world swam dizzyingly around him, and he couldn’t think past the one question ringing in his mind.

_What the_ fuck _was that?_

The air was hazy with swirling dust, so Isaac scrubbed his stinging eyes with his sleeve as he steadied himself.  He waited a beat then pushed to his feet, blinking uncomprehendingly at his surroundings. 

Twisted chunks of brick and metal dotted the carpark, interspersed with the remainder of Satomi’s people.  Almost all of them lay prone on the ground, some groaning in pain while others were terrifyingly still.  Few were uninjured, and Isaac caught a glimpse of an ankle twisted nauseatingly backward and a long gash that exposed jagged edges of bone before tearing his eyes away.

Breathing rapidly through his nose, he squinted at a thick plume of smoke rising far in the distance.  _A second explosion?_ he wondered, faintly.  It was too far away to have caused the massive blast still ringing in his ears, and the wrong direction besides.

_It’s too far away to worry about right now, Lahey.  Get it together._ Wetting his lips, Isaac reluctantly dragged his attention back to his immediate surroundings – and his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

The elderly man lay half on his side, blue eyes open and glassy.  A thick layer of dark blood pooled beneath his body, and his wrinkled hands loosely encircled a metal pole protruding from his abdomen.  His lips were parted in a saggy ‘o’, and his neck was extended at an impossible angle.

His chest wasn’t moving at all.

Isaac choked and stumbled backward, shoving down a wave of panic as he tried to avoid the creeping edge of the bloody pool.  _I’m so sorry.  God, I’m so sorry._  

Gasping, he twisted away from the body and found himself staring instead at the remnants of the school.  It was almost unrecognisable: where once was a brick-walled building, tall and proud and topped by a long, tiled roof, stood a smoking pile of rubble.  The red-brick wall was barely visible through the dust and it ended at waist-height, giving way to a gigantic mount of twisted pipes, broken brick and shattered glass.  Flames crackled deep in the wreckage, and the whole structure creaked threateningly as it struggled to stand in place. 

Isaac blinked.  His chest heaved, a wave of fury and heartbreak finally overcoming his terror, and he bunched his hands into fists as the wolf surged forward.  Eyes burning orange, his muscles coiled with anger and a low growl emanated from his throat.  He could barely hear his inner voice screaming beneath the shift: _Boyd, please, no! Please tell me you weren’t in there.  And – oh god.  The kids._

His senses heightened by the shift, he was suddenly aware of everything.  The gasps and whimpers of the injured.  The wails of the bereaved.  The heat of the flames, the soft brush of dust against his skin.

His heart pounding forcefully against his ribs.  His throat rasping painfully as his growls grew louder.

And then an anguished bellow cut across the carpark and jerked Isaac out of his head.  Twisting back to the scene, he noticed that more people had struggled to their feet, jaws set in faces that were pale beneath dust and streaks of blood. It was the tattooed man who had cried out, cheeks burning a deep, angry red as he turned to glare at the older man.  “You _monster_ ,” he snarled.  Raw and furious, his voice easily silenced the crowd’s whimpers as it rang through the air.  His fingers trembled as they balled into his fists, and his lips pulled back from his teeth.  “There’s kids in there.  _There’s kids in there!”_

With an anguished cry, he launched himself toward Peter in a jerky, powerful leap.  Claws burst from his fingers and his mouth split open to reveal several rows of fangs and a too-long tongue, and his forehead twisted to form hard ridges above his eyes.

And then he screamed, as a volley of _cracks_ cut through the air and a dozen bullets slammed into his chest.

Isaac couldn’t move.  All he could do was watch, limbs frozen in horror, as the man dropped to the ground and smashed his head against the bitumen.  The blow knocked him unconscious and he immediately stilled, limbs sprawled across the pavement like a broken doll, blood leaking from far too many holes in his torso.

His scream trailed off into a heavy silence.  Even the mutters of the injured had ceased, their pain forgotten as they watched him fall into unnatural stillness, his breathing wet and uneven.  The air crackled uncomfortably as tension stretched the moment to infinity, and the whole world held its breath to see which way the top would fall.   

Peter scrunched his nose and wiped a splatter of blood on his trousers.  “Pathetic,” he muttered.

And, just like that, the top fell.

Howls of rage erupted from every direction.  It took a moment before Isaac realised he was howling too, and he wrenched the wolf out of the driver’s seat with an effort, clenching his claws into his palms as he desperately fought for control.  He couldn’t lose his head now.

A press of bodies surged forward as one.  Startled, Isaac glanced around him to see the injured struggling to their feet, their wounds forgotten in the wake of their rage, while the healthy rushed forward in a ferocious, writhing mass.  Eyes glowed blue and green and gold, lips peeled back to reveal fangs and tongues and gaping maws that defied definition.  And every face was flooded with single-minded fury.

Someone shoved into Isaac and knocked him forward.  “Shit,” he muttered, twisting to the side as he tried to plant his feet, but before he could there was a second shove, and then a third, and then he was in the thick of it.  His height gave no advantage over the mass of bodies that pressed him from all sides, hot with rage and anguish and a thirst of revenge, and they carried him forward despite his best efforts to stay put.

Suddenly, he spotted a glint of sunlight on metal and wrenched his arm away from the nearest person with a curse.  A loud crack sounded just as he dropped to the ground and he glanced up in time to see a bullet plough into a red-haired woman’s arm.  It did nothing to slow her down: screaming in fury, she leaped clear over Isaac’s head to attack the shooter.   

Isaac had no time to think about it any longer.  Feet pounded the earth all around him, sending his heart racing with fear as he desperately tried to wriggle out of the way.  _Get shot if I stand up, get trampled if I stay here,_ he realised frantically.  _Fuck.  I need to get out._

A boot landed entirely too close to his ear and Isaac jerked to his knees.  Somehow, he’d ended up mere yards from the convoy.  The trucks were all running, he realised, and the nearest one grumbled as it began to reverse away from the school.

It barely made it two feet.  A woman – the gentle one, with the kind eyes and the cool hands – leaped onto the bonnet and punched her bare fist right through the metal hood.  She tossed a chunk of engine to the side, dodged to avoid a flying bullet, then launched herself bodily through the windscreen to yank the gun from her assailant’s hand.

The other vehicles were faring no better.  Gunshots blasted through the air as werecreatures swarmed the convoy, but wherever one person fell two more took their place.  Engines sputtered to silence and metal screamed in protest, and one by the one the drivers leaped from their useless trucks to join in the fight. 

“Shit,” Isaac muttered, scrambling to his feet.  The fight spreading out as the number of people on the ground swelled, and within minutes he would be surrounded by a mindless, violent bloodbath. 

Time to go.

But first, he needed to find the girls. 

They’d been somewhere to his right before everything went to shit.  The mob was obscuring his view, but Isaac angled in that direction and forced his way through the thrashing bodies.  Or, tried to: within seconds, he found himself lurching backward to avoid a fist sailing directly at his head. 

_Oh, that_ does _it._

His paper-thin hold on the wolf finally broke.  Anger flooded his limbs as he hurled himself forward, the shift transforming his face. His shoulder smashed into the man’s waist and slammed both of them to the ground with Isaac on top. A fist swung toward his face and he snarled as he caught it, squeezing until he heard the bones crack.  Drawing back his other arm, he smashed his knuckles as hard as he could into the other man’s cheek.

There was a sickening crunch of breaking bone and the man’s cheek crumpled inward.   The wolf grunted in satisfaction and drew back once more, but something heavy crashed into his side and sent him flying.

He landed ungracefully on his side, ribs cracking and pain bursting in his skull as it bounced against the bitumen.  The wolf wavered – only for a second, but long enough for Isaac to seize control of his suddenly-shaky limbs.  Gasping, every breath a new agony, he rolled to the side and swallowed a wave of nausea as the world rocked disturbingly beneath him.  _Head injury_ , he realised with a jolt of fear.  _Fuck._

His vision was oddly blurred, so he didn’t see the boot swinging directly at his face until it was far too late.  He couldn’t move out of the way, couldn’t stand up…scrunching his eyes shut, Isaac held his breath and braced for impact.       

The blow never came.

A roar thundered in Isaac’s ears, sending a fresh bout of pain through his skull.  Squinting, he opened his eyes just enough to see someone land directly in front of him and grab his assailant, tossing her fifteen feet through the air.  She collided with a pair of brawling women and all three fell to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs.

Isaac’s rescuer heaved a deep breath, then turned toward him and extended a hand.  “Come on,” Derek ordered.  “You need to get up.”

Sagging in relief, Isaac grasped the hand as much out of habit as anything else, then instantly regretted it when Derek pulled him roughly to his feet.

“Woah,” Derek muttered, grabbing Isaac’s shoulder as he wobbled unsteadily, fighting back a wave of nausea.  “Are you hurt?”

“Bumped my head.”  Isaac bit out the words.  It took a moment of breathing through the vertigo and stiffening his legs, but when he was sure he wasn’t going to fall he shrugged off Derek’s hand and turned his focus to more important matters.  “Have you seen the girls?  Or Boyd?” 

For a moment, Derek’s face seemed to pale around his blazing eyes.  But maybe it was just Isaac’s imagination, for a moment later the alpha’s expression was as stony as ever and his jaw clenched with nothing but pure determination.  “Where were they last?”

Isaac pointed in the direction where they’d been standing, then dragged Derek to the ground as the distinctive crack of gunfire sounded nearby.  “Shit!” he yelped, clapping a hand to his shoulder as a fiery stab of pain lanced through his flesh.   

Derek’s hand tightened on his arm.  “Were you hit? Where?”

“Just a graze,” Isaac grunted.  He thought that’s all it was, anyway: his hand was feeling disconcertingly numb, but he found that could move it – sort of – so there was no point stressing over it now.

The woman who had tried to rearrange his face wasn’t so lucky.  She screamed, drawing Isaac’s gaze just in time to see bullets rip holes in her abdomen, bursting out the other side with small sprays of blood.

_Maybe it’s not the wound after all._ Distantly, Isaac realised that all of his limbs were starting to feel numb, but it was hard to think through his buzzing head.  When he spoke, his voice sounded so detached that he wondered if it was coming from somewhere else.  “She was on their side,” he murmured tonelessly.  “They’re killing their own people.”

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Derek watching him in alarm, but whatever concern the alpha had didn’t prevent him from poking Isaac painfully in the ribs.  “Pull yourself together,” he ordered gruffly.  “We don’t have time for this.”

Ordinarily, his tone would have set Isaac’s teeth on edge, but for some reason, right now, he didn’t mind.  Actually, it might have helped.  A simple order gave him something to focus on, and Derek made sense.  He took a deep breath, and the numbness receded a little.  Another, and the buzzing began to quiet.

“That’s better,” Derek grunted, and Isaac must have hit his head hard since the werewolf actually sounded relieved.  Pushing to a crouch, the larger man peered in the direction that Isaac had indicated, then glanced at the beta with a crimson gaze.  “Now, stay low and _move_.”

For once, Isaac needed no further encouragement.   Mimicking Derek’s crouch, he darted forward at a low run, keeping a sharp eye on the path ahead.  They barely made it five metres before clashing with a wendigo, but between the two of them it was over quickly, and from there they did their best to dodge around the groups of fighting creatures.  Even then, they had to stop several times to fend off attacks from werecreatures intent on drawing blood.

“Isaac! Derek!”

Lydia’s shrill voice pulled Isaac out of his zone.  Whirling, he frantically searched the crowd for a glimpse of strawberry-blonde hair, and – _there._

Lydia was waving one hand frantically in the air, trying to catch their attention.  Her other hand brandished a metal pole like a cudgel, and blood streaked down her dusty face from an inch-long cut in her hairline.  At her back stood Allison, a knife in one hand and a pole in the other.  The two of them were surrounding a knot of screaming, bloodthirsty werewolves.   

Isaac’s heart stopped.  _How are they still standing?_

His question was answered almost immediately, and if he wasn’t so numb his jaw would have dropped in shock.  Scott was a blur of motion amongst the attackers, ridged brow furrowed in concentration and eyes burnished gold as he slashed and kicked at anyone who came close.  In the seconds that it took for Isaac to assess the situation, not a single blow got past him.

But he wouldn’t be able to hold out forever.  Even with Jackson’s help – Isaac finally noticed the other boy standing a foot in front of Allison, his movements slower than Scott’s and hampered by a makeshift splint – the other werewolves would overwhelm them in minutes.

He was moving before the thought had even finished.  His mouth opened in a yell – an anguished howl, a battle cry or an odd mixture of the two, even he wasn’t sure – and he dug his claws into the nearest man’s leg, catching a tendon and ripping it out of the bone before he could think twice.  Then he spun, slashing deep grooves across the surprised face of the werewolf to his left before flipping over his head to send a third man flying with a well-placed kick.  To his right, Derek’s methodically tore his way through the crowd, face covered in a fresh spray of someone else’s blood, while in front of him Scott’s movements somehow picked up even more speed, every blow hitting home with terrifying accuracy.

And then it was over.  Isaac froze, muscles taut and arm wound to defend against an attack that never came.  Head spinning, his injuries crashing back full-force as the adrenaline fled his system, he stared in confusion at the pile of bodies on the ground.  Some groaned in pain and others were terrifyingly still, yet none were trying to rise.  Hesitantly, he raised his eyes and nearly collapsed in relief: Derek and Scott, Allison and Lydia and Jackson: they were all covered in fresh bruises and they all looked incredibly shell-shocked but, somehow, they were still standing.   

Allison darted out from behind Scott and threw her arms around Isaac’s neck, her hands still clutched tight around her weapons.  “Oh, thank god,” she breathed.  “You’re okay.”

She released him before Isaac could even hug her back and eyed the chaos with a wide-eyed stare.  “We need to get out of here,” she urged.

Isaac agreed wholeheartedly. Derek, on the other hand, shook his head.  “You go.  Head for the Hale house, I’ll meet you there.”

Squinting in confusion, Isaac opened his mouth to protest.  Then, realisation struck and triggered a spike of rage that shattered his numbness.

“You’re a selfish asshole, you know that?” he snarled, stepping forward to shove Derek roughly in the chest.  The alpha’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t reply, which for some reason only heightened Isaac’s irritation.  “You’re abandoning us to go after Peter, aren’t you?” he spat, bitterly.  “I should have known not to trust you.”

Understanding flashed through Derek’s crimson eyes.  Surprisingly, he seemed more sad than angry when he replied, “I don’t want to leave you alone, but I need to find Boyd and the kids.”

And - oh.  Flushing, Isaac bit off his snarky reply and ducked his head to avoid Allison’s accusing scare. 

Luckily, Lydia came to his rescue.  “The kids are halfway to the Preserve by now,” she informed Derek, thankfully taking his attention away from Isaac.  “But I don’t know where Boyd is.”

“Alright,” Derek acknowledged, nothing but determination in his voice.  “You guys should go. Now.”

Scott frowned and stepped up to Derek’s side.  “I’m coming with you,” he announced.  Swinging his gaze to Isaac, he continued before the alpha could protest.  “Jackson’s hurt and Allison’s out of weapons.  I need you to get them to the Preserve, okay?”

No, it wasn’t okay. Isaac’s mouth opened, then shut again as he tried and failed to come up with a better option.  

There wasn’t one.

“Be safe,” he finally said.  Scott returned the sentiment then disappeared with Derek into the fray.

Be safe.  Or, at least, keep the others safe.  They were relying on him, now. 

Exhaling carefully through his teeth, he ignored the other three for a moment and instead scanned the area behind them, planning their escape route in his mind.  They were near the edge of the fighting now, and there were only a few brawling groups between here and there – if they were careful, they might be able to avoid almost all of them.

“Alright,” he started, trying to inject some confidence into his voice.  Jackson was cradling his injured arm to his chest, his blue eyes glittering with adrenaline, while Allison and Lydia gripped their respective weapons with an unexpected readiness.  “Let’s do this.”

* * *

The van rocked to one side, then landed back on all fours.

Stiles gripped his seat with sweaty hands and shot a desperate glance at his captors.  “Um, should someone maybe check on that?” he asked, shakily.  “I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”

Predictably, the woman completely ignored him.  Rhian, he thought her name was, although she had refused to acknowledge his question so he was basing that assumption on a scrap of overhead conversation.  The bearded man – Thomas, which Stiles knew because he actually introduced himself, like a normal human being - shot him an irritated glance but knocked briskly on the wall that separated them from the cab.  “Hey!” he barked.  “What’s going on out there?”

“Just stay put!”  Even muffled, Kali’s voice was instantly recognisable and it made Stiles grit his teeth in annoyance.  Damn Kali and her haughty attitude.  Damn him for letting her get under his skin.

Shifting on his seat with his hands cuffed to the floor, Stiles had no choice but to do as she had instructed.  But as the minutes ticked past, the shouts and screams grew steadily louder and it wasn’t long before Stiles heard the driver’s door crack open, almost immediately followed by the sounds of fighting.

Thomas swore and stomped to the back of the van.  He made to open the rear door, but as soon as he rested his hand on the lever the smaller woman shot out of her seat and wrapped a tight hand around his wrist.  “You heard her,” she said, sharply.  “Stay put.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with the other guy,” Stiles offered, clenching his hands even tighter around the metal bench seat.  “We’re sitting ducks in here.”

“Shut up,” Rhian snapped.  “You don’t get a say in –”

Something banged against the metal door before it began to screech, one corner peeling back in a way that thick metal should not be able to peel.  Stiles gaped, distantly amazed despite his panic, as the bottom hinge popped off to create a window to the outer world.

A woman’s face appeared in the hole and Stiles yelped, scrambling back as far as his restraints would allow.  Her forehead was ridged in a way that resembled werewolves, but her skin was covered in soft blue fur and her nose was pushed forward into a snout.  Her eyes glowed a fanatical green, latching onto the three of them with a crazed fury.  “Get out here, you cowards,” she bellowed as she threw herself bodily through the hole and grabbed Rhian by the ankles.   

Rhian snarled and rammed the butt of her gun into one of the woman’s hands.  She may as well not have bothered: the blue-haired woman barked a laugh and tightened her grip, giving a sharp tug backward.  Rhian toppled forward, losing her gun as she slammed into the floor hard enough to make it shake.  She began to slide toward the hole, helpless as a doll in the blue woman’s grip, and dug her claws into the van floor in desperation.  Her mouth opened in a desperate howl, her eyes widened with fear, and she left tracks in the floor as she disappeared feet-first through the opening and out of sight.

Stiles stared, frozen.  The entire attack had taken mere seconds.  “What the _fuck_?”

Thomas looked equally terrified, the muzzle of his gun wavering as he aimed it at the hole.  “Alright, alright, alright,” he muttered beneath his breath.  “I can do this.”

He didn’t look like he remotely believed it.  Licking his lips, Stiles studied him thoughtfully and picked his words with care.  “You don’t have to,” he said, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the bangs and screams and sounds of gunfire from outside.  “It sounds like a bloodbath out there.  You’d be better off running.”

The man spared him a quick, anxious glance.  “Run _where_? There’s nowhere to hide in Beacon Hills, and no one’s leaving town without you.  I can’t fight and watch you at the same time.”

“Then let me go!” Stiles blurted out, frustrated.  So much for choosing his words.

Thomas hesitated.  “If I let you go, I’m never going to see my little girl.”

If he intended to appeal to Stiles’ better nature, Thomas would be sorely disappointed.  “Don’t you get it?” Stiles snapped, pure exasperation making him slam an open palm against the metal seat.  “It’s over.  Peter _failed._ No one’s getting out of here, okay?”

The man’s jaw worked.  Desperation tightened his eyes as he looked from Stiles to the hole in the back door, to the deep gauges on the floor.

And then he reached under the opposite seat and pulled out a small leather case.

Stiles stiffened as his heart skipped a beat.  “What is that?” If his voice was a tad higher than usual, well, no one would ever need to know.

“It’s Peter’s plan,” Thomas explained as he opened the case.  It contained a single syringe filled with a strange, milky-white liquid, which he picked up as he reached for Stiles’ arm.

Stiles yanked himself back far enough that the metal cuffs cut into his wrists.  “Get away from me!”

For some reason, the man looked almost offended as he paused, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles’.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Stiles snorted in disbelief.  Not taking his eyes off the sharp needle point, he tugged fruitlessly at his cuffs and wished, not for the first time, that he had even a fraction of werewolf strength.  “Don’t take it personally,” he babbled, fear sending him reeling back to old habits.  “It’s just that I’m not a big fan of needles.  Or being drugged with unknown substances.  You seem…somewhat rational…so you get it, right?”

The man replied by rolling his eyes.  Reaching out, he gripped Stiles’ arm in one unnaturally strong hand and pushed his shirt sleeve up with ease.  Stiles closed his eyes as the needle pierced his skin, but he couldn’t block out the sharp sting of his arm or the cold sensation as something pooled deep in his muscle. 

When it was over, Thomas replaced the needle’s cap and tossed it carelessly into a corner of the van.  Stiles swallowed uneasily and waited until Thomas met his gaze before speaking.  “What did you do to me?” he whispered, hoarsely.

Instead of answering, Thomas merely cocked his head.  “Can’t you tell?”

_What is he…?  Oh._

Nestled next to his heart, his spark flared.  Stiles gasped, every inch of him tingling as it suddenly roared into being, filling his chest with intense heat.  But it was different, this time.  He wasn’t coaxing it into being, and the energy wasn’t coming from him at all - Stiles gasped, completely taken aback, as he felt it himself somehow draw it in from his surroundings.  He could almost see it, heat and light and sound soaking smoothly into his skin, racing through his veins to his heart.  The energy fed the flame and tongues of heat warmed his collarbones, his neck, as the fire heightened to an inferno.  It was so intense he wasn’t sure he could stand it, until it raced tracks down his arms to pool beneath his palms.

It was everywhere.  Every part of him was alive with it, the energy, the _power_ pressing against his skin, just begging for release…

A thought flitted through his mind and the handcuffs shattered with a loud crack, fragments hurling through the air to bury themselves in the van walls.  Stiles barely noticed, just as he barely noticed the bearded man shrinking into a corner, eyes shining with fear as he yelled something Stiles didn’t bother to hear.  He was nothing, after all, utterly inconsequential compared to the sheer power at Stiles’ fingertips.

Stiles was standing.  _When did I stand up?_ It didn’t matter.  He jerked his head at the back door of the van, watching impassively as it flew off its hinges to slam through the windscreen of the nearest car.  He didn’t care, didn’t bother to check if there were people inside – his attention was already elsewhere.  Drawn to the sound of screaming, of yelling, of snarling and gunfire and shouting, mere yards away.

Stepping out of the van, he turned to face the chaos.

* * *

Scott frowned at the hovering drones, relying on Derek to guard his back.  They were huddled behind a chunk of debris while the alpha figured out their next move, and when he had last looked at Derek he had been stoically ignoring the blood dripping into his eyes from a fresh scalp wound while he focussed all his attention on the battlefield.  He must have noticed Scott’s distraction, though, as he grunted, “What is it?”

“The drones,” Scott answered succinctly.  He broke off his gaze and scanned the nearby carpark while the older werewolf craned his neck upward.  “I’ve never seen so many of them in once place before.  They’re positioned around the edge of the campus, and I’m pretty sure they’ve somehow grown weapons.”

Pretty sure was putting it mildly.  With his werewolf vision he’d clearly seen high-powered guns sticking out from the bottom of each drone, occasionally recoiling as they fired.  He almost wished he hadn’t.

Derek’s shoulders immediately tensed.  “They’re pinning us in,” he breathed, before whipping around to stare at Scott with wide eyes.  “Isaac and Jackson.  You have to go back and warn them.”

Scott had already considered that, and he shook his head.  “By now, they’ll either be past them or trapped by them,” he pointed out. _Or dead._ Best not to think about that.  “But it does make things more difficult.”

Derek grunted, glancing back in the direction they had come.  His brow was creased in worry, his torso leaning slightly in that direction as though tempted to run back anyway.

“Derek,” Scott prompted gently, “we should – argh!” 

Something slammed into his head and knocked him sideways so that his skull bashed into the brick debris.  Vision swimming, Scott blinked frantically as he tried to scramble to his feet, peering at the silhouette of his assailant.  It was uncomfortably familiar even as it danced around Derek, both werewolves slashing and snarling and snapping ferociously, and he groaned as he stiffened his legs beneath him.  Peter.  Of course.

Derek and Peter seemed equally matched, and Scott hesitated.  If he was having this much trouble standing, he wouldn’t be much use fighting, but before he could come to a decision a third figure sailed over nearby debris, face twisted in anger.  Boyd planted a boot directly between Peter’s shoulder blades pushed off to flip over the older man, landed neatly on his other side.   

Peter stumbled but didn’t fall, instead turning the motion into a tight tumble.  He came to a stop directly in front of Boyd and slashed out as he rose, gauging at Boyd’s knees, abdomen and chest in quick succession.  He had just raised his hand for a fourth blow as Derek whirled in from the side, sweeping Peter’s legs out from under him before twisting into a leap and pinning the older man to the ground, one palm landing heavily on his windpipe.

 “I should have done this a long time ago,” Derek snarled, crushing Peter’s throat as he raised his other hand into the air.

Scott’s breath caught.  He wanted to say something.  He had to tell Derek not to do this…

At that moment, thunder rumbled overhead as storm clouds swirled into existence, blocking out the sun.   Electricity crackled in the air, sending Scott’s hair on end, and a loud _boom_ sounded from somewhere to his right.

Derek froze, arm raised, as a multitude of screams filled the air.  Then he turned his wide-eyed gaze on Scott.  “Go,” he ordered.

Scott didn’t need to be told twice.  His boots thundered against the ground as he sprinted toward the noise, not daring to hope.   He tensed as he spotted several people running toward him, readying himself for yet another fight, but to his surprise they pounded past him without a second glance. 

Was that good news, or bad? 

No time to think about it.  Pushing himself even harder, he darted around the first row of vehicles then skidded to a halt, eyes wide.

Four nearby trucks were on fire, their bonnets twisted and blackened while identical plumes of smoke rose from each one.  _Exploded_ , he realised, absently.  Somehow, that detail was nothing compared to the insanity on display in front of him.

Between the four trucks, half a dozen werewolves hung suspended in mid-air.  Their arms were flung outward, held stiffly as though trapped, and their mouths stretched open in silent screams.  Only their eyes moved, and when they saw Scott they widened in either fear or warning, he wasn’t sure which.

They were all unnaturally still but, behind them, something was moving.  Stepping softly, Scott picked a path between the suspended bodies and the lifeless ones on the ground, only stopping when he was finally close enough to see clearly.

Stiles stood whole and injured a few yards away.  Scott sagged, relief weakening his limbs, and felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips until he noticed it: Stiles’ face was completely blank, utterly expressionless save for a considering tilt to his head.  Before him, Kali floated spread-eagled in mid-air, her dark eyes glittering in anger and her lips pulled back in a sneer.

“You insolent child,” she snarled.  “You’re playing with things you can’t begin to understand.”

Stiles’ face didn’t so much as twitch, but his head did tilt a little further.  Instantly, Kali flew backward until she crashed into the truck behind her hard enough to leave a dent.  She floated back to her original position, then slammed backwards a second time. 

Scott had seen enough.  “Stiles,” he called out, hurrying forward.   His friend _had_ to still be in there, somewhere.  He had to be. “Stiles, it’s me.  Scott.”

Finally, a flicker of emotion.  The corner of Stiles’ lips turned up in amusement as he turned to stare at Scott with unnaturally bright eyes.  “I know who you are.”

“Right,” Scott muttered.  “Stiles, you know you’re not in control, right?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed.  Something invisible snaked around Scott’s ankle and yanked them out from beneath him.  He couldn’t quite suppress an undignified yelp, and a second later found himself hanging upside-down by invisible ropes around his ankles.

_Good job, Scott.  Really well done._ Inhaling deeply, Scott blew the air out through his cheeks and tried to remain calm.  It was harder than it sounded, what with the blood rushing into his brain, muddling his thoughts, but he eventually managed to crane his neck to meet Stiles’ gaze.

The other boy was watching him with eyes that were somehow bright and completely lifeless at the same time.  “See?” he said tonelessly.  “I have control.  Completely.” 

This time, Scott managed to suppress his yelp.  The ropes shifted, rotating Scott until he was facing a nearby truck.  A moment later, the entire truck exploded into flame. 

Flinching, Scott squeezed his eyes shut as though to shield them from the searing heat, and steadied his breathing as he felt himself spin back to face Stiles. 

The boy was clearly waiting for a reaction.  Scott had a feeling he was supposed to be impressed, or at the very least scared, so Stiles probably wouldn’t be pleased to know he was fighting a flood of white-hot anger.   _Damn you, Peter,_ he thundered internally.  _What did you do to him?_

It wouldn’t do to voice that thought aloud, though, with the weirdly inhuman Stiles waiting for a response.  It was an effort for Scott to smooth his face and calm his voice, but he managed it.  “Your dad, Stiles,” he said, instead.  “Did I ever tell you I knew him?”

Something indecipherable flashed across Stiles’ face, so brief that Scott wondered if he imagined it.  God, he hoped he hadn’t imagined it.  “He and mum were close, especially after my dad moved away,” he pressed on, blinking away the red tinge to his vision.  No need to tell Stiles they were dating, since he was pretty sure that wasn’t the case in Stiles’ world.  He wanted Stiles to remember his own father, not Scott’s version of him.  “I really admired him.  He was kind.  He genuinely cared about everyone, and he would always do his best to help no matter how hard things got.”

For a spur-of-the-moment plan, it actually seemed to be working.  If he squinted, Scott could almost see a glisten in Stiles’ unnaturally bright eyes, a tiny tremor to his lips. 

Licking his lips and ignoring the pulsing throb of his head, Scott made himself continue.  “He’s the most supportive man I’ve ever known,” he said, then added dryly, “more than my actual dad, that’s for sure.  He always made me feel like my opinion mattered, even when I was just a dumb kid.”

Stiles breathed a laugh.  “He put up with so much shit from me,” he murmured, speaking to himself as much as to Scott.  “Still does, I guess.  I don’t know how he does it.”

_That’s it._ Scott ignored the flaring hope in his chest and considered his next words carefully.  He was working on nothing more than a hunch, but he couldn’t see any other options right now.  It had to work.  “Can you picture him?” he asked, quietly.  “His eyes, his face?  His smile?”

For the first time, Stiles blinked.  Something flickered behind his eyes and his throat worked.  Finally, he nodded.

“Focus on him, Stiles,” Scott said.  “Find a memory.”

He held his breath, desperate.  If this didn’t work…god, he didn’t know what he would do.  He didn’t know what he _could_ do – it was impossible to fight when Stiles could restrain him with nothing but a thought.

The seconds passed, and then it happened.  Stiles’ blank expression fractured.  Anguish, pain, laughter and warmth chased each other across Stiles’ face, each emotion as brief and intense as the last.  Scott didn’t dare breathe, eyes burning as he stared intently, not even daring to blink.

When it happened, it was subtle.  A focussing of his eyes, a miniscule shake of the head, a tightening of his lips.

Then Stiles blinked, gaze shifting from the middle-distance to Scott’s reddened face, a small frown lines creasing his forehead.  Confusion clouded his face, until suddenly it didn’t.

Jaw dropping, Stiles paled in horror and hopped backward with an almost comical yelp.  “Oh my god!”

The invisible ropes around Scott’s ankles vanished instantly.  He had just enough time to panic and squeeze his eyes shut before he crashed headfirst into the ground.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Stiles babbled from somewhere behind him.  There was a rush of footsteps as Stiles appeared at Scott’s side, one hand hovering guiltily over the werewolf’s shoulder.  “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.  Are you okay?”

Scott flashed an ok sign, too busy wincing at the sharp pain in his skull to reply.  _At least I don’t have to worry about college after today,_ he thought wryly.  _Fucking ow._

After a minute, it subsided enough for him to climb to his feet.  He took a moment to relish the feeling of solid ground beneath his boots – honestly, the relief of being upright far outweighed any pain from his fall – although, after a moment, he decided to keep that particular thought to himself.  Stiles probably wouldn’t find it comforting.

Speaking of whom, Stiles was still hovering at Scott’s elbow, his face flickering between worry and shame fast enough to give Scott another headache.  Rolling his eyes, Scott reached out to drag him into a one-armed hug, then jerked backward and stared in surprise.

Stiles looked the same as he always did, albeit somewhat more alarmed.  “What?” he demanded.

Scott rubbed his arm uncomfortably.  It tingled where it had touched Stiles, a faint echo of the sharp staticky sensation from a moment ago.  “Are you…is it…?”  Trailing off, he gestured helplessly at Stiles’ chest.

The other boy glanced down, then met Scott’s stare with an oddly guarded expression.  “Yes.  They injected me with something, I think it’s here for a while.”  He sounded almost defensive, although Scott for the life of him couldn’t figure out why.

“Okay,” Scott said placatingly.  Turning, he waved a hand toward Kali and the other floating prisoners.  “Maybe you should think about letting them go, then?”

Stiles jumped.  Actually jumped, as though he had completely forgotten they were there, and the whole situation was so ridiculous that Scott might have laughed if it wasn’t so dire.  It was, though, so he merely watched silently as the prisoners dropped to the ground with significantly more grace than Scott.  None wasted any time in leaving, although a few shot Stiles terrified glances and Kali paused just long enough to be sure he noticed her glare. 

Relieved, Scott allowed himself a small smile, which immediately faded when he noticed Stiles’ pained grimace.  “What’s wrong?”

Stiles shrugged awkwardly.  “I’ve never had anyone look at me like that,” he muttered.  “You, sure.  Scott’s a little terrifying when he’s angry – don’t tell him I said that.  But not me.”

Scott reached out to squeeze his shoulder sympathetically, ignoring the uncomfortable prickling of his palm.  He wanted to say it would get better, but he could still recall every detail of Allison’s horrified expression when she first saw him transform, and he didn’t want to lie.

“We should get going,” he said instead, giving Stiles one last squeeze before letting his hand drop.  “I left Derek and Boyd with Peter.”

“What?” Stiles yelped, immediately jolting into motion.  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Snorting, Scott broke into a light jog to keep up.   “Derek had it under control.” 

Clouds still blanketed the sky, but the thunder seemed to have vanished as they rounded the trucks and entered the open area of the carpark.  The fighting seemed to be slowing down, finally, which made it easier to avoid the last groups of brawling werecreatures.  Instead, they found themselves stepping around blood-spattered people in various states of injury and unmoving bodies that Scott did his best to ignore. 

Conscious of the fact that Stiles was already panting a little – _so the spark hasn’t given him_ every _advantage_ , he thought grimly, if a little pettily – he kept his pace slow and led the way until he spotted a drone out of the corner of his eye.  Pulling to a stop, he squinted thoughtfully at his friend.  “Stiles,” he began, careful to keep his tone free of expectation.  “I don’t suppose you’re able to take out the drones?”

“Take out the drones?” Stiles echoed. He stopped, scratching the back of his neck as he peered upward and twisted to identify all of them. “Why?” 

“They’re shooting people.”

Stiles gave him a sharp glance.  It wasn’t angry, exactly, but it carried an undercurrent of resentment that had much the same effect.  His brow furrowed as he turned his attention back to the nearest drone, lips pursed in concentration, and –

– Scott jumped, biting off a surprised curse as six bolts of lightning flashed through the sky.  The nearest one burned an imprint on his retina as it jig-jagged between the clouds to lance straight into the first drone.  It vanished as quickly as it arrived, and for a moment the drone hovered uncertainly in the air.  Then it fell, plummeting straight down to crashed into the ground with a distant thump.  A quick glance showed the remaining five drones following suit.

Scott realised he was grinning.  It was a strange feeling, as though he’d almost forgotten how to smile, but he couldn’t help it after the disaster of today.  It was catching, too, as a quick glance at Stiles saw his eyes sparking with laughter. Maybe their luck was finally turning.

Then, he saw them.

They were far in the distance – too far for Stiles to see, he’d wager, but near enough for his werewolf sight – and he could make out just enough.  Derek, lying motionless on his side.  Peter, looming over Boyd as the younger boy scrabbled backward on hands and feet.

Scott was running before he could think.  Stiles’ confused shout followed him but he ignored it, his focus narrowed to a single point.  Boyd seemed to have lost all his fight, not even resisting when Peter reached out and sunk his claws deep into his abdomen.  His mouth opened in a scream and his limbs flailed weakly, but he was helpless against Peter as he lifted the boy bodily into the air. 

Derek roared.  The sound rattled the nearby bricks and tugged at Scott’s bones, pulling him forward as only an alpha could.  But Scott was too far away, helpless to do anything but watch as Derek hobbled toward Peter, too injured to properly stand, and grabbed the older man’s arm.   

Peter twisted so quickly that Scott couldn’t follow the movement.  One minute, he was leaning over Boyd; the next, his hand was around Derek’s throat, claws sinking into the alpha’s skin to grab hold of his windpipe, and then –

Scott howled in agony.  He’d never felt the bond, that indescribable link between him and Derek.   But he felt it snap, felt the sharp pain that seared its way into his bones, forever marking him what he had lost.  Grief and fury whirled in his heart and the wolf surged forward, hurling his human thought into nothingness.


	23. The Storm (Part 2)

**Chapter 23 – The Storm (Part 2)**

Stiles’ lungs burned as he ran.  He was too far away to see what had happened, but clearly _something_ had – Scott’s howl, raw and pained and more terrible than anything he had heard before, had shaken him to his core.  He could almost feel its pull, a faint echo of how Scott’s roar had once dragged his subconscious back into the light.

_Fuck, Scott.  What happened?_

The distance between them was closing fast and Stiles pushed harder, wrestling his whirling thoughts into order as he peered at the scene ahead.  The broad-shouldered boy lying against a pile of rubble could only be Boyd.  Something dark stained the lower half of his shirt, but his head was rolling and his fist clenching and unclenching, so Stiles shoved down his anxiety and tore his gaze away.  _He’s alive.  That’s all that matters._

To Boyd’s left, two figures were locked in a fast-paced, deadly battle.  Peter had his back to Stiles, but for once he seemed to be losing – as Stiles watched, the taller man took a half-step backward, then another, slowly but steadily giving ground.  There was no fancy footwork this time, just quick, desperate jabs at his assailant and occasional quick twists out of the way.

And then Stiles noticed Derek, and he stumbled to an abrupt halt.

The werewolf was lying spread-eagled on the ground.  His body was littered in bruises and claw marks, deep gauges that marred his skin and revealed muscle and sinew.  His dark hair was matted with dirt and his eyes were glassy as they stared, unseeing, at the sky.

And his mouth.  His mouth was open, forever frozen in a silent scream.  Deep, red blood stained his lips and tracked paths to his neck, where it merged with a veritable lake.  Thick enough to completely coat his skin and copious enough to spill over into the ground, the sticky fluid had already formed a too-large puddle beneath his body.

The bile was back.  Stiles’ gut twisted in horror and he doubled over just in time to heave yesterday’s lunch onto the ground.  _Derek, please, no._ His head swam and his hands were numb as he wound his fingers into his hair.  _No, not Derek.  Not like this._

His chest burned.  Inhaling shakily, Stiles dragged a hand over his mouth and summoned the heat almost on instinct.  It roared across his shoulders into his hands, across his hips into his legs.  It heated his face and traced patterns on his skin, while thunder rumbled amongst darkening clouds overhead. 

 _Dad_ , Stiles reminded himself sternly.  _Think about dad, and don’t lose yourself again._

It was tricky, balancing the memory of his father with the burning beneath his skin, but Stiles had always been good at multitasking.  With a few, steadying breaths, he waited until the heat was simmering beneath his palms, then straightened. 

Control, as it turned out, was overrated.  Peter’s concoction had turned out to be a blessing in disguise – once Scott helped him find his anchor, at least.  As soon as he’d snapped out of his power-induced haze, Stiles realised that he’d been making a very grievous mistake.

He’d been trying entirely too hard to control the spark that was as much a part of him as his arm – albeit, a very silent part of him that he’d been suppressing for years.  He’d skimmed through his book as the author rambled at length about the unpredictable mischief of magic, but he probably should have paid more attention because he was starting to realise that _his_ magic, at least, didn’t respond very well to being shackled.  Peter’s concoction had overwhelmed him with a degree of power that he had no hope of suppressing, and in doing so it forced him to stop fighting the spark and instead start working _with_ it. 

As it turned out, his spark _did_ respond very well to being used.

It flared a little hotter beneath his palms as he took one last glance at Derek, grief squeezing his lungs, but he shoved away his flash of anger.  _Dad_ _always believed in justice over revenge.  I can’t let him down now._ Instead, he turned his attention back to the duelling werewolves.

Peter had been forced a little closer to Stiles and he ducked to avoid a slashing hand, finally allowing Stiles a good look at Scott.  Slick blood coated the teenager’s hands and face, which was twisted into an animalistic snarl that made him almost unrecognisable.  He lunged forward, snapping his sharp fangs over the area where Peter’s neck would have been if he hadn’t managed to twist out of the way. 

But his eyes were yellow, burnished gold in the sunlight, and it was that that pushed Stiles into motion.

“ _Enough!”_ Stiles bellowed, closing the distance in a few short strides.  Wind whipped past him and clouds clustered overhead, but he paid them no mind.  Sweeping his left hand to the side, he released a pulse of air that knocked Scott off his feet and sent him flying.  The teen turned his landing into a roll and was back on his feet in seconds, but that was all the time Stiles needed.  Lifting his other arm, he narrowed his eyes at Peter and clenched his hand into a fist.   

Peter’s crimson eyes bulged. A small grunt worked its way from his throat as he struggled in vain to move.  Stiles’ invisible binds wrapped him from neck to feet, trussing him up tighter than a Thanksgiving Day turkey.

A growl and a rush of footsteps sounded from Stiles’ left, so he flicked his left hand to throw Scott back once more.  The werewolf screamed in frustration as his back crashed into the ground.

Peter, never one for futility, stopped squirming.  His gaze landed on Stiles, more calculated than fearful, and it made Stiles clench his jaw in anger.  _Don’t you dare,_ he warned him silently. _I’ve had enough of your games._

Peter’s mouth already opening to speak, but at Stiles’ thought it snapped shut and stayed there.  _That’s better._ Peter’s suddenly bloodless face as he struggled to make a sound was proof enough that he disagreed, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care.  _Now stay that way.  I’ve got more important things to deal with._

Turning back to Scott, Stiles had his first moment of uncertainty.  The werewolf had shifted his anger to Stiles, and his angry yellow gaze was locked on Stiles as he flexed his claws by his sides.  He looked ready to pounce…but he didn’t. 

_He’s still in there.  Good._

“Scott,” Stiles said, lowly.  He raised a placating hand, then shoved it back down as Scott growled in warning.  _Right.  That’s going to take some getting used to._ “Scott, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now,” he tried, eyes flickering to Derek’s mangled body before he could stop himself.  Swallowing back another wave of nausea, he fed the hurt into his flame and continued.  “But if you do this, there’s no going back.”

“He killed him.”  Scott’s voice was guttural, underscored by a low growl, and his glare somehow grew even hotter. 

Stiles pressed his lips together and wondered if he could somehow inch in front of Peter without Scott noticing.  “I know,” he said, softly.  “Scott, please.  I know you’re hurting, but this isn’t going to make you feel better.  It’s not going to bring Derek back either.”

This time, Stiles barely got his hands up in time.  Scott’s eyes glowed as he lunged forward, one hand stretched toward Stiles’ face.  He slammed into an invisible shield and fell gracelessly onto the ground but instantly sprung to his feet.  Fury twisted his features, and he beat angrily at the shield with both fists.   

Stiles licked his lips, his anger faded enough to let his nervous jitters shine through.  Shit.  He didn’t want to hurt Scott, but the other teen would never forgive himself if he killed Peter.  The talking had surprised him – Scott had never spoken much when the wolf fully took over, so maybe he was more in control than Stiles thought – but, either way, he had to get through to him.  But how?

Scott had appealed to Stiles’ dad, but talking about Melissa was definitely out.  Her death was just another painful memory to feed Scott’s rage, as was anything involving Derek.  Rafe seemed as much of a douchebag in this world as in Stiles’ own.

The werewolf continued to batter the shield, hard enough to split the skin on one hand.  Stiles swallowed, desperately wracking his brain.  Logic wasn’t working, and most of Scott’s memories had unhappy endings, but maybe... _fuck._ He really didn’t want to do this.

“I killed someone.”  The words were barely audible even to Stiles’ ears, but Scott must have heard them because the banging abruptly stopped.  Stiles hesitantly raised his gaze, wincing at Scott’s unblinking yellow stare.  Impatience was written into the werewolf’s stiff shoulders and heaving chest – Stiles had one chance to say his piece, and one chance only.  That much was clear. 

Why was it so hard to speak?  Stiles had never had trouble finding words.  Until now.

“It was…uh.  It was self-defence, I guess.”  He’d never said that aloud before.  It sounded pathetic.  An excuse for an action that had no excuses.  “He was trying to kill me and I was trying to get away.  The scaffolding collapsed, and this pole…”

The words died on his tongue.  He couldn’t say it again.  Once was hard enough, and this awful, blood-drenched day had long past wrung him dry.

But it seemed to be working.  Scott hadn’t moved and his snarl was still firmly in place, but there was a hint of emotion in his golden eyes.  The first sign of something other than raw fury. 

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles cleared his throat and continued.  “Anyway.  He died, and it ruined everything.  It ruined the Pack.  It ruined the best friendship I ever had.  Most of all, it ruined me.

“They say it gets easier with time.  But the truth is, it doesn’t.  He’s never going to stop haunting my dreams or second-guessing my decisions.  I’m slowly learning to live with it, but I don’t want this for you.”

Another flicker, and a twitch of Scott’s right hand.  The snarl lessened, ever so slightly.

Stiles breathed, heavy with emotion.  He’d never spoken about this to anybody, not really.  It was oddly freeing.  The massive weight that had lived on his shoulders for months was slightly lessened. 

“Scott,” Stiles continued, voice breaking slightly.  “Scott told me: ‘there’s always a choice.’  And I hated him for it, but he’s right.  I chose to pull that pin. I would have died if I hadn’t, but it was still a choice.”  And this was it: now or never.  Hopefully Scott was in control enough to listen.

“Right now, you have a choice.”  After a brief pause, Stiles allowed the shield to fall.  Scott’s hand fell forward until he yanked it back to his side, his golden eyes never wavering from Stiles’.  Stiles hesitated only a moment before gesturing toward the still-immobile Peter.  “It’s up to you,” Stiles said, evenly.  “I won’t stop you.”

Scott twisted to face the older werewolf, a low growl rumbling in his throat, and Stiles held his breath.  Peter couldn’t make a sound but his blood-red eyes widened in fear, and his muscles tensed once more beneath their binds.

The moment stretched on, until finally Scott’s shoulders slumped.  His fingers twisted together in front of him as though to hold them steady as he turned back to Stiles, golden eyes teary.  “You’re right,” he muttered, hoarsely.  “He’s not worth it.”

A wave of relief weakened Stiles’ knees and almost made him fall.  His mouth was too dry to speak, but he managed a weak, sympathetic smile.

Soft footsteps interrupted the silence.  Boyd limped toward them, one arm wrapped protectively around his bleeding abdomen.  His face was unreadable as he shifted his gaze from Peter to the carpark at large, where injured and angry werecreatures were still scattered across the pavement, and his voice was blank when he asked, “So, what now?”

Scott hesitated, almost dropping his gaze to Derek’s body before jerking it away at the last second.  “The Preserve.  Isaac, Jackson and the girls should be there, along with some of Satomi’s people.”  Glancing over the rest of the carpark, he added, “Once we know they’re okay, we can come back to help.”

Boyd nodded, then tilted his head toward Peter.  “And what about him?”

Scott made to answer but Stiles beat him to it.  The fire surged forward, responding to his thoughtless will, and Peter whimpered as the bonds tightened around his chest. 

Scott stopped and eyed Stiles with suspicion.  “What are you doing?” he asked, warily.

Stiles waved a dismissive hand.  “I’m not going to kill him,” he assured him.  “But I don’t want him running out on us, either.”  Eyeing Peter thoughtfully, he jerked his head to one side and clenched his teeth at Peter screamed in agony, his tibia bursting through his skin.  A second jerk of Stiles’ head, and the other leg followed suit.  “That should do it.”

Scott swallowed, visibly torn between disapproval and relief, while Boyd seemed darkly amused.  “I’d say so,” he drawled, clapping Stiles on the shoulder.

Peter’s screams faded to pained sobs.  Stiles hesitated a moment longer before releasing his binds, allowing him to collapse onto the ground, and the werewolf immediately began to crawl toward him. “Please,” Peter begged, voice cracking between gasps of pain.  “Don’t leave me here.”

One clawed hand reached out to touch Stiles’ ankle and he yanked his leg out of the way, hopping backward in disgust.  He fought to keep his voice icy as he replied.  “Don’t worry, Peter.  We’ll be back.” 

And then he turned and, gesturing to Scott and Boyd, led the way to the Preserve.

* * *

It took longer than Stiles had hoped.

Boyd couldn’t manage anything faster than a lumbering walk and the others weren’t much better.  They’d stopped a few streets from the school to bandage Boyd’s abomen, using strips of his shirt for want of any actual materials, but he still clenched one arm against his side and suddered in pain with every step. 

Scott had too many cuts to even think about bandaging them all.  Stiles had nearly fainted when he first doffed his shirt, openly gaping at the criss-crossing wounds and bruises that covered his entire torso.  Scott took one look at his face and wrenched his shirt back over his head, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

“Don’t,” Stiles protested thinly.  Biting his lip, he stretched one shaky hand toward his friend’s battered skin.  “Maybe I could…?”

Scott shook his head, a little too fast.  Stiles dropped his hand as though burned.

“It’s not like that,” Scott rushed to assure him, words tripping over each other.  “But have you ever tried it before?”

“Well, no.  But –”

“Stiles.”  Somehow, Scott managed to muster a wan smile.  “I’ll heal.  Meanwhile, you look ready to pass out.  Save your strength.”

He had a point.  Whatever Thomas had injected Stiles with was starting to wear off.  Stiles yawned as the flames died down another notch, leaving him feeling cold and weak in their wake.  The last thing Scott needed was to carry his unconscious ass the rest of the way.

Their route took them past the remnants of the Sheriff’s station, but by then Stiles was so worn out that he barely noticed his own shock.  The building was reduced to rubble, and Stiles stared blankly at the destruction until Scott prodded him on.

“Did he think you guys were still in there?” Stiles finally asked.

Scott’s voice was flat when he replied.  “Probably.  But we weren’t, so it doesn’t matter.” 

Boyd discovered some bikes which they rode to the edge of the woods, but then they had to ditch them to stumble over sticks and stones and leaf litter.  Finally, though, the Hale house came into view, and with it the soft rumble of voices.

Stiles sagged in relief.  Almost there.  A small crowd was gathered in front of the house and he spotted Isaac, instantly recognisable with his curly hair and tall frame.  The teenager must have heard them coming, because he whipped around to face them with a guarded expression that immediately turned to relief.  He started toward them, a broad grin spreading across his face, as –

An engine roared overhead.  It burst over the treeline, jerking Stiles’ gaze upward just in time to identify a sleek, grey military jet with something horribly familiar strapped to its belly.   

“No.”  Stiles’ whisper was hoarse and he twisted, straining to follow its path.  It was flying low and straight, following a straight line from the far side of the Preserve to the centre of town. 

To the school.

 “Stiles, what -?”

Scott didn’t get to finish his question.   A loud bang sounded through the trees, almost immediately followed by a rolling tremor of the ground.   

A sob choked Stiles’ throat.  In his mind’s eye, he could see them all.  All the injured people who’d lain scattered across the ground, immobile and completely helpless to escape. 

God, he’d tried so hard to find a way out that didn’t involve killing Peter, and for what?  He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

A second roar sounded overhead, closely followed by a third.  Stiles closed his eyes – the sound of the explosions was proof enough of the massacre occurring a few short miles away.  He didn’t need to see the bombers as well.

A hand clapped his arm, startling his eyes open.  Scott was standing before him, lips trembling and face pale as he asked, “Can you get us out of here?”

Stiles swayed, confused.  “What?”

Scott tightened his grip, digging his fingers almost painfully into the soft flesh of Stiles’ forearm.  “Can you get us out of here?” he repeated, urgently.

It was hard, but somehow Stiles forced his brain to process the question.  “Um.  I don’t know.  Why?”

“Lydia’s freaking out – she says they’re planning to carpet-bomb the whole town.  For some reason, Isaac’s taking it as gospel.  We need to get through the fenceline, _now._ ”

 _That_ kicked Stiles’ brain back into gear.  Ignoring his racing heart, he quickly found the remnants of the flame and gave it an experimental tug.  A gentle wave of heat rolled over his shoulder and upper arms in response. 

Glancing from Scott to Isaac, who must have made his way over to them while Stiles was busy freaking out, Stiles set his jaw and met Isaac’s questioning stare with a sharp nod.  “If you get me there, I’ll get us out,” he promised.

Isaac looked doubtful, but to his credit he only hesitated a moment before nodding.  “It’s only a few hundred yards from here,” he told Stiles, before turning to Boyd.  “We’ll go on ahead; you muster the rest.”

 “I’m coming with you,” Scott interrupted, speaking over Boyd’s agreement.  Isaac’s brow knotted in concern, but Scott merely set his jaw and stared resolutely. 

Isaac heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.   “Fine, whatever.  Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and leading the way through the trees.  Once, Stiles might have made a snarky comment, but now he merely started after Isaac in silence.  He was too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to care.

Isaac was right.  It really was only a few minutes before they splashed through the shallow creek and climbed the opposite bank, and then there it was.  The fenceline.

Scott had described it as Jurassic Park, Stiles suddenly recalled.  He could see why.

It was twenty feet high and imposing, a combination of wall and wire fencing.  Electricity hummed through it – Stiles could _feel_ it, he realised with a faint shock, the energy calling to him, resonating with his spark.  Guard towers stood at various intervals, although all the ones Stiles could see were empty.  Clearly, they weren’t expecting too much trouble at this particular section.  Looking closer, Stiles could see threads of wolfsbane and razor wire intertwined with the fence, along with another two or three plants that he didn’t recognise.  The base sank into concrete that must have run deep into the ground, and Stiles could sense the embedded mountain ash as easily as the electricity.

Frowning, Stiles took a step closer and tilted his head.

“Well?”  Isaac prompted.  “Can you do it?”

Stiles ignored him.  Holding out a hand, he mentally reached for the electricity running through the fence and felt it jump in response. _Hey there._ _Come on, now._   Tugging gently, he pulled it away from the metal and drew it in toward him.  _That’s it._  

His brain told him that it should hurt, but it was just a pleasant tickle on his skin as it soaked right through his palm to feed the fire in his chest.   In seconds, the flames spilled over into his arms with renewed gusto but Stiles kept going, feeding the heat until it pressed against the inside of his skin, right on the verge of becoming painful.

He only had one shot at this, after all.  Exhaustion hovered at the edge of his consciousness, evident in the shakiness of his legs and the slight swim to his head.  If he failed, they were all screwed.

The press began to hurt, so he reluctantly let his connection to the electricity subside.  Any more, and it would come spilling out of him just as it had back at the Whittemore house.

A clatter of footsteps and hushed voices announced the arrival of Allison, Boyd, Lydia and the others – a handful of survivors and a dozen or so kids.  Stiles’ concentration lapsed, only snapping back at the sound of lightning cracking threateningly overhead.  Fuck.  He couldn’t afford mistakes now.

Ignoring the noise, Stiles slowly knelt and placed his open palms against the ground.  He took at deep breath as he raised his head, and then he _pushed._

The ground split with a loud _crack._ A deep fissure opened directly beneath Stiles’ hands and zig-zagged toward the fence, splitting the concrete in a shower of dust and shrapnel.  Behind him, someone shrieked in surprise, but Stiles ignored them.  Raising his hands, he slashed outward in a sudden ripping motion.   

The fence tore in a heartbeat.  Metal screeched, sparks flew, and several of the intertwined plants burst into flame.  Gritting his teeth, Stiles pulled harder on the spark, steadfastly ignoring the way his core grew colder by the second, and flung the heat outward in a steady stream.  He could feel it coursing through the air to hug the sides of the fence, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he forced the sides of the fence apart, inch by painful inch.

It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but it felt like hours before the gap was large enough for a person.  Stiles tried to hold on longer, but his spark sputtered out and the heat fizzled away from his hands.  Without it, he could no longer hold his exhaustion at bay and it washed over him in a powerful wave.  Collapsing forward, he felt his knees slam into the ground as his vision began to darken at the edges.  

Someone caught him before he could fall any further.  Blearily, Stiles raised his eyes and could just make out Scott’s worried face, wavering in and out of focus.  His mouth was moving, but Stiles had no chance of making out the words over the foggy buzzing in his head, and after a moment Scott seemed to realise that.  The werewolf settled Stiles into a sitting position and sat down beside him, on strong arm bracing Stiles across his shoulders.

A few minutes passed in silence.  Stiles was vaguely aware of movement, but he kept his eyes on the ground and didn’t bother paying attention until Scott shifted to catch his eye. 

“Hey,” Scott said, quietly.  “I know you’re struggling, but we need to keep moving.  Ready to stand up?”

 _No._ Stiles turned his head and shot Scott the filthiest look he could manage, which Scott promptly ignored. 

“Sorry, dude, but we don’t really have a choice.”  Shifting to a crouch, Scott wrapped his arm tightly around Stiles’ shoulders and dragged the other boy to his feet.  Stiles wavered, but Scott quickly adjusted his position so that Stiles was tucked into his side, one arm around Scott’s shoulders while Scott gripped him securely around the waist. 

The world wasn’t spinning quite as hard as Stiles had expected.  Sighing, he rested his head on Scott’s shoulder and tried to mutter a thankyou, but all the came out was a garbled grunt.

Scott shot him an unreadable look.  “Don’t thank me,” he muttered as he heaved Stiles closer to the newly-made fissure.   “You’ve done more than enough for us today.”

Stiles frowned.  He’d terrorised a bunch of people and then killed Peter.  Not exactly his finest hour.  He opened his mouth to say as much – or to try to, anyway – but never got the chance as Scott suddenly jerked backward and spun around.  Stiles groaned at the sudden movement, but bit off his curse when he realised what had happened.

Isaac lingered just beyond the fence, but the rest of the makeshift party were already limping toward a nearby copse of trees.  Aside from Scott and Stiles, only Lydia remained on the inside, and she was currently standing a few yards away with sheer terror written into every line of her face.  Behind her, one arm wrapped around Lydia’s chest and another pressed against the banshee’s throat, was Kali.

Scott’s grip tightened around Stiles’ waist.  “Let.  Her.  Go,” he demanded in a low growl. 

Kali, for once, didn’t smirk.  Surrounded by blood and dust, her dark eyes were piercing as they locked onto Stiles.  “You killed him,” she rasped.

Stiles shrunk back.  Scott’s grip tightened even further. 

Kali didn’t even seem to notice that Scott was there, her attention completely focussed on Stiles.  “You ruined everything.  We were fine, before you came along, and now we’re gone.  Because of you.”

“Kali, I –”

“But your friends mean nothing to me,” Kali continued as though he hadn’t spoken.  “So I’ll cut you a deal.  Come here.  Come to me, and I’ll let her go.  Your little werewolf friend, too.  That’s my promise to you.”

Stiles hissed in pain as Scott’s hand spasmed.  The werewolf muttered an apology and loosened his grip, but only by a hair. He clearly knew – or at least suspected – what was running through Stiles’ head, and his supernaturally-strong hold on Stiles was more than enough to counter Stiles’ feeble attempts to pull away.

“Let me go,” Stiles hissed, momentarily giving up the struggle.

“No.”

His heart throbbing painfully, Stiles turned just enough to shoot Scott a heatless glare.  “Scott, stop.  We don’t have a choice here.”

“There’s always a choice, right?”  He could almost hear the gears whirring rapidly in Scott’s head, but he knew him better than he knew himself.  The werewolf was freaking out just as much as Stiles.

A flash of movement and a loud howl shattered the moment.   Something grey leaped out of the nearby woods, moving so quickly that Stiles only had a faint impression of a muzzle and a tail, and then Kali was screaming.

The werewolf dropped Lydia in an instant to instead clutch at her arm.  Her skin hung in ribbons around a deep crater in her forearm, and before Stiles could even figure out what had happened the grey blur reappeared behind her, tearing a mouthful of flesh from her calves.

Kali dropped to the ground, howling.  Lydia darted away to take shelter behind Scott, who stepped in front of her protectively, but Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away from the grey animal.

It was a coyote.  Blue-eyed and slim-footed, it snarled through a blood-soaked muzzle before whirling to make one final pass at its prey.

Kali’s throat was ripped out in a shower of blood.  The woman’s eyes bulged, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her hands briefly drifted toward her mutilated neck.  Then her muscles slackened, and she slumped lifelessly to the ground. 

For a moment, no one moved, until Stiles slipped out of Scott’s loosened grip and took a step closer.  His legs wobbled a little beneath him, but he managed not to fall.

The coyote was breathing hard, her tail twitching restlessly as she stared at Kali with white-hot anger.

“Malia?” Stiles asked, cautiously.

She twisted her neck toward him, but otherwise didn’t move.  Stiles tried not to react to the sight of her blood-soaked snout, or the chunks of flesh and muscle and god knew what else that spattered her fur.

He summoned a smile – shaky, a little uneven, but sincere all the same.  “You saved my life.  And Lydia’s.  Thankyou.”

Stiles heard someone mutter a soft question from behind but ignored it, keeping his focus on Malia as she gave her tail a hearty wag.

The sight of it make Stiles chuckle.  An honest-to-god actual chuckle, which burst out of him unexpectedly and was probably as much due to his exhausted delirium as actual amusement.  Malia seemed to appreciate it, though, as she grinned toothily before lowering her head to delicately pick up a hung of flesh.  Carrying it carefully in her jaws, she tottered over to Stiles and placed it on the ground before him. 

“Uh.”  Frozen, Stiles tried not to let his repulsion show on his face.  “Thanks, but no thanks.  I’m good.”

Malia cocked her head in confusion, and Stiles was wracking his brains for a polite way to say _I’m not a huge fan of raw, human flesh, but you do you,_ when they were interrupted by the sound of more jets approaching from the south.

The absurdity of the situation immediately fled his mind.  Panic gripped him and Stiles leaned forward, voice low and urgent.  “Listen, Malia, you have to get out of here, okay?  It’s too dangerous to stay.”

Malia stiffened, blue eyes suddenly cold with suspicion.

 _No, no.  Don’t distrust me now._ Desperately, Stiles grasped for a way to explain it.  “I know this place is important to you,” he said hurriedly.  “But you’ll die if you stay.  Okay?  You can always come back later. ”

Malia growled, softly, and danced backward.

Unthinking, Stiles reached out a frantic hand to halt her, but realised immediately that he’d made a mistake.  Malia yowled and snapped threateningly at the air between then, her eyes pulsing an electric blue.  Without waiting for a response, she whirled around on the spot and darted back into the woods.

 “Malia, wait!” Stiles yelled, making to follow.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder.  Stiles glanced at Scott in irritation and tried to shrug it off, but his friend merely dug his fingers in a little tighter. 

“Stiles, we need to go,” Scott urged. A flicker of regret crossed his face as he glanced toward the Preserve, but his jaw was set with determination.  “I’m sorry.  But she’s made her choice.”

For a moment, Stiles didn’t move.  _But she doesn’t understand…If I could just….I can’t just…_

In the distance, a jet engine hummed.  Scott was right.  If they didn’t leave now, all of this would be for nothing.

His heart crumbled as he allowed Scott to steer him to the fence where Lydia and Isaac were now waiting on the other side.  Stiles’ burst of energy was rapidly fading, but Scott helped him into the fissure and kept one steady hand on his back as he guided him over the uneven ground, and Isaac effortlessly lifted Stiles out by the arms at the other side.

“Let’s go,” Isaac murmured, dragging Stiles’ arm over his shoulder as Scott heaved himself out of the fissure.  “The farther we can get from here before stopping, the better.”

That was a good idea.  A good strategy, and Stiles had the fleeting thought that maybe he should be helping with that.  That was his job, after all.  But he was just so _tired_ , so all he could do was lean into Isaac’s side and let the taller boy guide him across the field to the copse of trees that already hid the others.

They were nearly there when the jets arrived.  All four of them stopped, eyes unwillingly drawn to the air.  Two, four, six – Stiles counted ten.  Ten bombers, flying in formation, all of them headed toward a sleepy Californian town turned nightmare prison camp.

From this distance, the bombs were merely shadows.  Stiles might have thought he imagined them, but the explosions were unmistakeable.  The deafening bangs that threw dark clouds of ash into the sky.  The rumble of buildings – schools, coffee shops, homes – collapsing into rubble.  The tremors that rippled across the grass, grumbling and groaning to shake the ground beneath their feet. 

Choking back a sob, Stiles turned away from Beacon Hills to head into the trees.

 


End file.
